


Fly Away, Little Hawk

by TeamHPForever



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-31
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:17:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamHPForever/pseuds/TeamHPForever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint dreams of one day leaving the circus behind, but it's hard when all he knows is his bow and the performances. Then their boss hires Phil Coulson to be the new head of security.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The crowd screams and cheers as Clint shoots flaming arrows at his targets, hitting the bull’s-eye every time. By the time he turns and takes a bow, they’re chanting his name. Not his real name, but “Hawkeye! Hawkeye! Hawkeye!”

Clint takes another bow before disappearing behind the curtain. Miren grins at him and offers her hand for a high-five. He hesitates and then obliges.

“That was incredible!” she squeals, her blond curls bouncing everywhere. Her black horse prances at the end of his lead, waiting for them to enter the stage. She’s been at the circus for longer than Clint even though she’s three years younger.

“Thanks,” Clint says. He wishes that he could disappear back to his tiny compartment in his own trailer, but there isn’t any privacy, not even there. So he stows his bow away with everyone else’s things and clambers up to the top of a truck trailer. It’s not an easy climb but he’s been making it for months.

There isn’t anything up here but that’s the point. It’s the only place he can go to be alone. The cheers from the big top echo across the grounds. He can picture the show perfectly—Miren standing on the back of her gelding with the other equestrians performing tricks around her.

Clint has thought about stealing one of those horses and galloping away from here. It’s one of the more promising of his many plots, each crazier than the last. He’d steal this very truck if he thought he would be able to drive it out of the damn lot.

The circus had taken him in years ago, when he was just an orphan boy without a single person or place to call home. Clint was thankful for them then until he realized what the circus was truly like. The scrounging for food that the crowd had left behind, the crowded living conditions, being paid pennies for every performance.

The owner of the circus—he has a name but everyone calls him Boss—says that they’re paid in food and housing and work. They don’t need to be paid _money._ It didn’t take Clint long to realize that it’s because he never wants them to be able to leave.

Miren is the only thing that makes it all bearable. At least here he has friends, a chance at food, and a little sock full of money hidden in a secret compartment in his only real possession—a suitcase. That’s more than he’d have in the outside world.

Clint can hear the sharp sounds of gunshots from inside the big top now. The sharpshooters are the second to last act. He only has a few more minutes before he’ll have to climb down so he can meet the rest of the performers to help them clean up after the crowd leaves.

Clint rolls over on his back, staring at the sky. A small cloud drifts across the blue and he longs to be up there flying with it, like his namesake the hawk. If he was a real hawk, he wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. He could just fly on to new territory when things got rough.

There’s a steady thunder of gunshots like the grand finale of a fireworks show. Clint sighs, taking his cue to head back to the tent. Miren’s waiting for him inside, her eyebrows raised with a question. He shakes his head and she looks away. Clint loves her for never pressing him on where he disappears to for hours.

Once the show is over and the crowd is gone, the performers emerge into the tent to clean up and tear down. Clint shudders as he looks around at the empty stands. They always seem so full of life during performances but now they’re cold and haunting. The sight has always given him chills, though he’s never been sure why.

Clint finds a dollar, half a candy bar, an entire bag of popcorn, and a broken silver chain. He pockets them all—except the popcorn, which he shares with Miren and some of the younger performers while they work—for later when he can return to his little space in the trailer and hide them away. He’s been collecting stuff like this for years, they all have. Miren calls him “her little magpie” even as she’s shoving coins into her bra.

It’s almost four in the morning by the time they’re done. Clint falls onto his mattress after stowing away his finds in the suitcase. His entire body feels like it’s made of cement. He’ll have to be up again in just a few hours, so they can move on to the next location, but for now he can fall into the dark bliss of sleep.

Clint dreams of flying above the clouds, over the circus and then away to a place that he doesn’t recognize but still manages to feel like home.

***

Miren wakes him in the morning with a gentle hand on his shoulder. It's a lot better than the time she threw water on him. She was lucky he wasn't sleeping with his bow then. Or his knife, for that matter.

Clint reaches for the hilt, feeling the familiar cold metal against his fingertips. It calms him down and he rolls himself off the mattress.

"Where are we going this time?" Clint asks. The trailer is silent. Everyone else must have already left to get ready to move on.

Miren shrugs. "Don't know. Don't care."

Clint doesn't know why he does. It's not like it matters where they end up, as long as there's another show to look forward to. It's always going to be the same performance, the same bow in his hands, the same targets, the same crowds, the same clean-up, the same half-empty candy wrappers, the same hope of finding some loose change beneath the seats.

"I heard close to New York City," one of the youngest performers says as he hops up into the trailer. Clint can't remember his name, but he does know that he's about six years old, an acrobat, and the son of one of the older acrobats.

Clint nods and pulls on a clean shirt and jeans over his boxers. He entertains thoughts of running away to the city while he gets ready. They'd never find him there, not with so many people. And maybe he could find someone to take him in. Or just live off the street. It can't be all that different to what he's living with now.

It takes two hours to pack everything up. The sun is just filling the sky when they pile into the trucks and head out. Clint crams himself between Miren and one of the sharpshooters. He hates this part of the circus: the rumbling of the trucks, the crush of the people around him, staring out the nearest window (if there is one) and watching the scenery pass him by.

They don’t stop, not once. Someone hands him a sandwich midway through the ride and Clint devours it in a few bites. The bread is dry and there’s only one thin slice of meat, but it’s better than nothing.

It’s almost dark by the time they pull into the large field that will serve as their home for the next few days. The first order of business is to unload everything. Clint somehow gets roped into helping set up the temporary stables for Miren’s horses. He doesn’t mind the large animals but they don’t seem as taken with him as they are with Miren.

He’s not as taken with them either, so he guesses that’s fair.

It’s only when everything is prepared that Clint is allowed to go to bed. He falls onto his mattress and shoves his face into his pillow. Bangs and shouts echo around him, people still trying to get things unloaded. Clint wraps a hand around his knife and falls asleep.

***

Clint wakes to the clatter of rain against the roof of the trailer. He peeks out the tiny window in Miren’s empty room and sees that it’s pouring. There’s a too-small poncho shoved underneath his mattress so he gets dressed and pulls that on over his clothes. Someone has to help Miren feed the horses and then he has to practice with his bow.

By the time he’s grabbing it from the storage spaces, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. He sets up the targets out back of the trailer and shoots at them from varying distances. He barely even has to think about it and they’re just too easy. Clint eyes the top of the truck and wonders if he could do it.

Climbing up is a little more difficult than normal with his bow strapped to his back, but he manages. He’s not a circus star for nothing. Clint balances himself and draws the bow. This is a completely different angle but there’s something exhilarating about it. He really feels like a hawk up here, aiming down at his prey.

The first arrow thuds directly in the center of the target. Clint grins and backs up a bit, moving even farther away. If he expects the new angle to impact his aim, it doesn’t. No matter where he fires from, he always hits the target straight on.

Someone applauds from below. Clint whirls around, his heart racing, but it’s only Miren. He lets out a sigh of relief and climbs down.

“That was amazing!” Miren says, bouncing up and down. “How did you do that?”

Clint shrugs. “Lots of practice. It just comes naturally, I guess.”

“Boss has an announcement,” Miren says, the excitement slipping off her face. “He wants us all at the big top in five minutes. I was just looking for you.”

“Let’s go.” Clint follows her and finds everyone else gathered inside the tent. There’s a slight hum of conversation that ends abruptly when Boss climbs up on a podium above them.

There’s a man with him, someone Clint has never seen before. He looks to be in his early twenties, with cropped brown hair and a kind face. His suit is clean cut and outlining his broad shoulders and short build.

“Greetings, friends,” Boss says. That’s what he always calls them, “friends.” It grates against Clint’s nerves. He knows that he’s never had many friends, but he’s pretty sure this isn’t how he would treat them if he did. “I know that there’s a lot to do, so I’ll be keeping it brief. This here is Phil Coulson. He’s going to be around while we’re here and maybe after that if I can convince him. He’s going to be in charge of security for the time being.”

Security? They’d never had anyone in charge of security before. There wasn’t any reason to, since they didn’t have anything worth stealing and the performers were all more than capable of protecting their own space.

Clint squints as he looks over Coulson. The man stares back at them all without a hint of the disdain like Boss always seems to have for them.

“I will do my best to help in any way I can,” Coulson says and Clint doesn’t know why he believes him, but he does. Coulson just looks so open and honest as he says it, like he genuinely cares.

“It would be much appreciated if you would all cooperate fully with Mr. Coulson,” Boss continues, his eyes adding _“Or else.”_ “Remember, he’s here for all our safety. I won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

They all take that as their cue to get out, dispersing off to their usual jobs. Clint heads out with Miren, resting a hand on his bow for reassurance. “Why do you think we need security?” he asks.

“Probably just because we’re so near the city.” Miren shrugs, jerking her head toward the tent where all the animals are kept when they aren’t performing. “You know how people are about circuses.”

“That makes sense,” Clint says, though he can’t stop the uneasy feeling in his gut. They’ve been near lots of cities before without extra security. There is an unspoken agreement between the heavy-lifters, the sharpshooters, and the animal keepers that they’ll all band together in the event of a problem.

“I wonder if this means there’ll be new people around. Security guards, you know?” Miren says, half to herself. Clint makes a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t like the idea of strangers wandering around the circus, even if they are just doing their jobs.

They split up when Miren heads to her horses and Clint goes to tend his bow. He cleans away the dirt that has accumulated during his practice session in the rain and mud and then checks all of his arrows. The familiar routine calms his mind and he’s so absorbed that he doesn’t even realize he’s being watched.

“Aren’t you a little young to be in the circus?” The voice makes him jump. Clint twists around, his hands automatically wrapping around his bow, to see Coulson standing behind him. He’s alone and he looks more relaxed now that he’s not standing in front of all of them.

“Aren’t you a little young to be heading up security?” Clint snaps back.

Coulson laughs and the sound fills the whole tent. “I’m twenty.”

“I’m not the youngest one here. Miren’s only fourteen. Some of the acrobats are even younger.” Clint puffs up his chest and reminds himself to loosen his grip on the bow. Coulson is working for them, he’s not here to steal it. Then again, Clint supposes, security would be the perfect cover.

“I’m here to protect you,” Coulson says, like he’s reading Clint’s mind. “I’m guessing you’re an archer?”

“What was your first clue? Was it the bow?” Clint narrows his eyes as he surveys the man. This is supposed to be his time to himself and Coulson is ruining that.

“Fine, fine.” Coulson grins at him. “I’m coming to the show. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.” Without saying goodbye, Coulson disappears.

Clint takes a few deep breaths, steadying his nerves, and turns his attention back to his bow. It isn’t long before he’s forgotten all about the new head of security. There’s a show tonight and that’s his only concern right now. Boss has made it clear that if anyone screws up, they’re out on the street.

***

The show goes off without a hitch. Clint makes it through his whole performance with perfect timing, hitting every target. As the last arrow lands in the middle of the bull’s-eye, he allows himself a slight smile before a flash of movement catches his eye.

It’s Coulson, lurking in the shadows just offstage. Clint can see his arms crossed over his chest and a bit of a smile on his face. In the few seconds that it takes for him to make his bows to the crowd, Coulson disappears.

“Good luck,” Clint mumbles to Miren as he stumbles through the curtains.

“Thanks.” She grins back at him but he barely notices. Normally he craves solace after a performance, but this time Clint feels like there’s someone he needs to see. The only problem is, he can’t seem to find him.

Coulson isn’t anywhere around the performers or the big top as far as he can see. Clint supposes that he might be out among the crowd, but he refuses to consider that as a possibility. He’d never be able to find him in there.

So he checks the trucks and the trailers and the stables and the animal cages. Nothing. Clint’s given up and is headed to put his bow away when he finally spots that damned suit disappearing around the corner of the tent.

Clint jogs to catch up and calls, “Hey!” Coulson stops and turns around, just in time for Clint to realize that he has no idea what he wants to say.

“Is something wrong?” Coulson asks, his eyes quickly surveying the grounds.

Clint shakes his head and strokes his thumb against his bow. “You were watching me.”

“I’m working for you all. I thought it would be fair if I at least saw some of the circus in action.” Coulson raises his eyebrows and opens his arms, like he’s expecting Clint to accuse him of some sort of crime.

“And?” Clint doesn’t know why he needs to ask, why he even cares. He’s never cared what anyone has thought of his performance before. He just goes through the motions, tolerates the applause, and prays that he doesn’t screw up so that he can stay another day.

“You’re an amazing shot, Hawkeye.” His circus name sounds strange on Coulson’s lips, less of a cover and more intimate. “You’re wasted in the circus.”

“Yeah, well.” Clint shrugs. “The circus is the one that took me in.” Coulson looks like he wants to ask what he means by that, but before he can there’s a thunderous outbreak of applause. “That’s the end of the show. I need to get going so that I can help clean up.”

“I need to go keep an eye on things,” Coulson replies. Neither of them move a muscle, standing behind the tent and staring at each other.

Clint is the first to leave, pushing his way through the curtains of the tent and immediately having to jump out of the way to avoid being trampled by a herd of clowns. He weaves his way through the crowd until he finds Miren at the head of it. Once the crowd is gone, they make their way into the big top for clean-up.

As far as Clint is concerned, it’s just like any other show. Still, he can’t stop himself from glancing around every few minutes to see if Coulson has finished supervising the crowd’s departure. He’s so distracted he even misses a silver watch that’s caught in the side of one of the seats.

Miren lets out a squeal of delight as she holds it up. They’ll have to give it to Boss to “return to its rightful owner” but things like that usually mean extra food or money for the finders.

“How in hell did you miss that?” Miren asks as she tucks it into her bra. Her entire face is lit up like she’s picturing all the things she can buy with tonight’s pay.

Clint shrugs, his heart pounding. “I was thinking about something else.”

Miren raises her eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t mean _someone?_ Is something wrong, Clint?”

“Everything’s fine.” Clint forces a smile onto his face, or as close to one as he ever gets off the stage. “It’s just been a long day, after the move and all.”

Miren glances over his shoulder and Clint twists around in time to see Coulson walking along the top of the stands. “Sure it has,” Miren sings before she skips away.


	2. Chapter 2

If there are any worries about security, Clint doesn’t really notice anything over the next couple of days. He rolls out of bed in the morning, helps Miren with the horses, and then spends most of the rest of the day with his bow until it’s time for each evening’s performance. He’s flawless, like always, despite the distraction of Coulson watching him from the shadows every time. He doesn’t notice Coulson watching anyone else, but then it’s hard to tell from backstage.

It’s disconcerting, but he lets it go. Coulson isn’t bothering him. Clint tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care.

After it happens for the third time, Clint snags Coulson out back of the tent, lurking within view of the entrance to the stands.

Coulson opens his mouth before Clint has a chance to figure out what he wants to say. “Have you ever considered joining the Army?”

Clint shrugs. Of course he has. He’s considered anything that’ll get him out of this place. “I’ve been told I don’t take orders well.”

Coulson laughs. “I almost became an Army Ranger. They’d be glad to have a shot like you, trust me.”

Clint doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never had anyone encourage him to pursue a life outside the circus before. Everyone’s too busy trying to make sure that he stays right here, waking up in the trailer every morning and shooting at targets every night. “Yeah, well. I have a home.”

Coulson frowns and there’s something sad in his eyes. Before they can say anything more, the crowd starts to file out and Coulson becomes distracted in overseeing it. Clint slips away to meet up with Miren.

After that, Clint takes to returning the favor. He lurks on top of the truck, resting his bow in his lap like a cat and watching Coulson from above. If their new head of security is up to anything underhanded, he doesn’t look it.

Coulson keeps moving almost constantly, from the animal cages to the trailers to the big top to the parking area and then back around. He doesn’t seem to get tired, even though the vast majority of the time he’s wearing that stupid suit. Every once in a while Coulson needs to blend in and changes into an Army sweatshirt and jeans.

Clint isn’t sure which one he likes better.

He also isn’t sure why he’s content to spend so many hours watching over Coulson when he could be doing something useful. Not that there’s much to do. If he practices less than usual, well, then he’s just saving himself for performances.

***

It’s a new day and Coulson has gone out of view when Clint spots a pair of men walking up the dirt track. They’re both wearing jeans, sweatshirts, and dark glasses. One of them has black hair stuffed under a plain blue baseball cap and the other one has a shaved head. Clint is pretty sure he can see a scar ringing the bald one’s ear.

Clint doesn’t like them.

Before he has a chance to move, Coulson appears and walks over to intercept. They speak animatedly for a few minutes. The bald one does most of the talking for the invaders, waving his arms for emphasis. Coulson looks like a brick wall with his arms crossed over his chest and a wide stance.

In the end, Coulson nods grudgingly and turns around to lead them in the direction of Boss’s personal trailer. It’s about half the size of the performers’ but it also only houses one person.

Clint can’t resist. He climbs down from the truck and lurks around back of the trailer. He learned a couple years ago that if he places his head just right along the panels, he can hear everything going on inside. He hasn’t had much use for the knowledge until now.

“Where’s the money?” The voice isn’t one that Clint has heard before and he can’t see which of the invaders is speaking.

“This is all I have.” That’s Boss, his voice lacking in its usual arrogance. If Clint didn’t know any better, he’d say the man’s terrified. “You’ll get the rest in a couple weeks.”

“We’re not a fucking collection agency that you can duck calls from.” It’s the first voice again. Clint hears a hand slam down on a table. “You’ll have it all—plus interest—by next week.”

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

The door on the other side bangs open and then closed again. Clint backs away slowly, making his way back to the truck trailer and climbing up in time to see the two men walking back down the driveway again.

That’s why Boss hired Coulson, he realizes. He’s looking for protection from people he owes money to. A chill crawls down his spine.

Clint finds Coulson watching the tigers in their cages. He checks quickly to make sure none of the animal handlers are around and then says, “I need to talk to you.”

Coulson turns, an eyebrow raised. “About what?”

“Those guys that were here earlier wanted to collect money from Boss,” Clint says in a rush before he can change his mind. “I think that’s why he hired you. To protect him in case they sent anyone out here for it.”

Coulson looks grim. “I know.”

“You know?” Clint’s eyes widen. He’d expected Coulson to brush him off, to accuse him of lying, to refuse to believe him but he hadn’t expected that.

Coulson laughs but none of the humor shows on his face. “I can recognize muscle when I see it.”

“And you’re just going to stick around and deal with it? What if they come after you?” Clint wants to gather up his arrows, wants to go back up on that trailer, and make sure that no one can hurt Coulson or any of them.

Coulson’s eyebrow quirks. “It’s my job. Nothing I can’t handle. Don’t worry about me. Besides, three more days and the circus will leave New York.”

Three more days. That’s right. “Right. Of course.”

Coulson turns back to watching the tigers as Clint starts to walk away. Just before the archer disappears out of the tent, Coulson says, “I wouldn’t stick around if I didn’t believe in keeping you and the other performers safe.”

Clint hesitates for a second, a strange shiver running down his spine at _you,_ and then keeps going.

Outside the trailers, everything seems abnormally quiet. The sound of horses’ hooves echoes from the big top, where the equestrians are practicing. Other than that, everyone seems to have disappeared. Clint feels restless, like he wants to tell someone about what he’d just overheard, but he doesn’t know who it should be.

He doesn’t want to worry Miren with any of this and he doesn’t feel like he knows any of the other performers well enough to approach them. He should tell a sharpshooter, since they generally keep the closest eye on things, but with their dark eyes and quick fingers he’s afraid they won’t believe him.

He’s just a seventeen-year-old archer who keeps to himself.

In the end, Clint climbs up to the top of the trailer and just lies on his back, lulled into a daze by the repetitive hoofbeats. They’ve stopped by the time he startles awake a couple hours later.

“Clint?” It takes him a minute to realize Miren’s calling his name from below, quietly, like she doesn’t want the call to carry. He crawls over to the edge and peers down at her.

“What do you need?” he asks.

She snorts at him. “You’re supposed to help me feed the horses, dumbass. Now get down here and help.”

Clint grumbles incoherently as he climbs down and follows her over to the temporary barn. The horses stare at the two of them, ears pricked, as they toss flakes of hay over the metal bars of the enclosures. Once that’s done, Clint helps the other two equestrians clean stalls while Miren polishes down the tack. There isn’t a performance tonight, so they’re all allowed to relax—as much as is ever allowed, anyway.

Clint is counting on a few extra hours of sleep tonight and headed in that direction when Miren catches him by the wrist. “Brandi and I are going into the city. Come with us.”

“We can’t.” He tugs himself away from her touch. “Boss would have all our hides if we left the circus without permission.”

“Boss. Isn’t. Here,” Miren replies with mischief in her eyes. “Aren’t you curious about what New York City looks like? How many chances like this are we going to have?”

Clint can’t deny that he’s tempted. He’s always wanted to see the city. He’s only seen it from a distance, through the dirty windows of various trucks. “How are we going to get there?”

“Brandi hired a cab. Don’t worry, she’s covering the cost.” Miren’s bouncing again, from foot to foot, and radiating excitement. “And don’t feel guilty about that. She’ll pay whether we go or not, so there’s no use beating yourself up for not paying a cut.”

Clint wrinkles his nose. He’s always surprised by how well Miren reads him. He should have more protests but he can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t go. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Yay!” She claps in approval and grabs his wrist again, dragging him around the big top and to the edge of the road. Ten minutes later, a woman joins them who he assumes must be Brandi. He recognizes her as one of the sharpshooters, a shrewd woman with squinting eyes and thick red hair.

“Don’t worry if Boss comes back early,” Brandi says as a yellow cab pulls up to the side of the road. “The others will cover for us.”

Clint and Miren nod as they clamber into the backseat of the cab after her. Brandi rattles off an address and then they’re off.

Clint can’t ignore the deep feeling of nerves rattling around inside of him. He hasn’t snuck away from the circus in years, not since Dead Shot was alive. The experience wasn’t a positive one. He trusts Miren and hopes that’s enough to trust Brandi as well, but all the trust in the world won’t stop Boss from reaming them if they’re caught.

New York City is a dark sprawl of lights and people and buildings that are so close together Clint isn’t sure how anyone can breathe. Even now, as dusk is touching the sky, there are still cars packing the streets.

The cab pulls up along the side of one of these streets, in front of some kind of taco restaurant and a bar. Brandi hands the driver a handful of money and the three of them get out.

“Remember,” she tells them as they pause on the sidewalk, “we meet back here at ten. If you’re not here, I will leave without you.” She doesn’t wait for their confirmation before walking through the entrance of the bar.

“She’s serious,” Miren says. “Come on, let’s walk.” Clint agrees and they start moving toward the center of the city. Shops and restaurants and bars and apartment complexes surround them on all sides. A pair of men crash through the doors of a bar right in front of them, neither of them seeming to notice as tightly as they’re wrapped up in pummeling each other.

Clint steps neatly around them and keeps going.

He tries to picture not meeting Brandi in a few hours, just living here instead of in the circus. Sleeping in alleyways instead of in the trailer, hunting for food in dumpsters instead of the big top, but at least he’d have the chance at a decent job and he wouldn’t have to travel anymore.

“You’re not thinking about running away, are you?” Miren asks, interrupting him eying an alley that doesn’t actually look too bad. “I know that look. I’ve seen it.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. Is that really so bad?”

“Who would help me feed the horses?” She nudges him with her elbow in the ribs. “Come on, Clint. The circus is where you belong.”

_The circus is where you belong._ That’s what Dead Shot used to tell him, every night as he was about to go to sleep and every morning when they met to practice shooting. The words hissed with malice in his voice. Clint knows that Miren doesn’t mean it that way, that she means it as in the circus is his family because it’s all he has, but he can’t stop the shudder from racing down his spine.

“What if I don’t want to be in the circus forever?” Clint kicks at a stone along the edge of the sidewalk, watching it bounce into the street and down the sewers.

“I don’t think any of us want to.” Miren turns her face away from him, but he can read the shame and worry in her voice. “But it’s the best we have and we might as well make the most of it. Someday…”

“Someday, what?” Clint snaps, a little more harshly than he meant to. “Boss will give us all raises? An angel will fly in and save us?”

“Someday we’ll escape,” she says, her voice steely with determination. “You’ll find something to do with your archery and I’ll find someone who values my skill with horses and then we can move on. Until then…I can’t leave them, Clint.” Her voice breaks over his name and he wraps an arm over her shoulders.

“I’m not asking you to. You can always go back. You have Brandi, the other equestrians, the sharpshooters, everyone. The circus doesn’t need me.” Even as he says it, he realizes that it’s not true. He’s the only one besides Coulson that knows Boss’s secret and what it could mean for them all. “Don’t worry. I’m coming back with you.”

Miren smiles over at him, a tear shining underneath the streetlights on her cheek. “Good. Now come on. This trip was supposed to be fun!” She skips away and Clint has to jog to keep up.

They have as much fun in New York City as two teenagers without a penny between them can, running up and down streets and ducking into any shops that are open. Before they know it, Miren’s watch is reading half-past nine and it’s time for them to hurry back to meet Brandi.

Clint pauses for a second as they reach the bar—Brandi isn’t anywhere to be seen yet—and remembers their earlier conversation about running away. Despite his promise to Miren, he has to admit that it’s extremely tempting.

Boss wouldn’t even know until he’s long gone. Nevertheless, when Brandi comes out of the bar reeking of beer and hardly able to stand up straight, he climbs into the cab after her and Miren.

“I wish we could do that more often,” Miren sighs as the cab leaves the city lights behind. “We’re outside of so many amazing places and we can’t even _see_ any of them.”

Clint doesn’t reply but she’s not looking for an answer. They all know that they probably won’t be able to risk this again, not anytime soon. Boss rarely leaves them alone with enough time to make a break for it.

The cab pulls up on the side of the road all too soon, the familiar sight of the circus greeting them. The three of them clamber out once more and tramp up the driveway.

Clint’s heart stops when a dark figure appears from around the other side of the big top and approaches them. He’s thinking about making a run for it when he recognizes Coulson and lets the tension slide out of his muscles.

“Where have you three been?” Coulson asks when he reaches them, eyebrows raised and arms crossed. He doesn’t sound accusing, just curious.

“Out,” Brandi answers, slurring the simple word. “What’s it to you?”

Clint nudges her out of the way, hoping to head off the fight that she seems to be looking forward to. “We’re back.”

“I can see that.” Coulson snorts. “I’m not going to tell Boss that you’ve left, so you might as well tell me where.”

“Into the city,” Miren answers, slumped down like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. “We just wanted to see it.”

Coulson looks them over, one by one, and then nods. “Get down to your trailers. Boss will be back any minute. And make sure that Brandi doesn’t cause any trouble. I can’t protect you from the head of the circus.”

“I know,” Clint murmurs, wrapping an arm underneath Brandi’s to keep her balanced on her feet. “Thank you.”

Coulson nods and heads back in the direction he came. Miren glances quickly at Clint and the two of them flank Brandi before walking toward the trailers. They make sure their drunken accomplice is safely in bed and in the hands of her fellow sharpshooters before heading to their own beds.

“Was New York everything you hoped for?” Miren asks as they settle down for the night, whispering so they don’t disturb the others in the trailer.

Clint thinks about it for a second, thinks about the disgusting smells and the people everywhere and the fights and the cars. “It was more.”

“It was amazing, wasn’t it?” Miren keeps talking as Clint settles down in his bed, running his fingers over the blade of his knife. It’s still under his pillow, just the way it always is, one of the very few constants in his life. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep as Miren’s recounting stories of everything they’d seen, as if he hadn’t been there the whole time.

He dreams of the city, of living in one of those apartment complexes they’d passed and maybe teaching archery sessions to teenagers in the afternoons. It wouldn’t be the worst life in the world and he has to be a better teacher than Dead Shot was.

In his dreams, he walks through the door to his very own home only to find that there’s someone already there. He reaches for his knife at his hip and then lets it go when he recognizes Coulson.

“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Coulson tells him as Clint makes his way across the floor and plants a kiss on his lips. Clint wakes with a start, only to find that it’s about four in the morning.

“What the hell?” Clint murmurs as he drops back onto his mattress.


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning, Clint writes the dream off as a combination of adrenaline from their adventures in the city and Coulson catching them when they got back. After he helps Miren take care of the horses, he hunts Coulson down.

Their head of security is sitting in the stands of the empty big top. Clint tries to ignore his hatred of the darkness and silence of the tent as he makes his way up the stands.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says as he drops down next to Coulson. They don’t look at each other, eyes fixed on the smoothed surface of the sandy oval below. “You know, for last night.”

Coulson shrugs. “It’s not my job to enforce curfews.”

“You still could have reported us.” Clint wrings his hands in his lap, not used to feeling like he’s in someone’s debt. “That’s it.” He stands up and starts back down the way he came.

“Clint?” Coulson’s voice stops him. “I meant what I said, about not being able to protect you from the head of the circus. He’s my boss too.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Clint replies softly and walks away again. It’s the truth. Clint knows what could have happened last night, all three of them did. The other performers may have been willing to stick out their necks to cover for them, but Clint would never ask that of anyone.

Especially Coulson. He may be on their side, but he’s not a performer and he’ll never know what it’s like to be under Boss’s thumb every minute of every day.

Clint takes his bow and shoots at targets for a few hours. He swears he feels someone watching him a few times, but whenever he looks around there’s no one there. It burns against his skin until he’s shaking so much he misses the bull’s-eye for the first time in years.

Luckily, it doesn’t happen during that night’s performance. He hits every target perfectly, and even throws in an extra flourish at the end. The crowd goes wild, but it doesn’t lift his heart like it always has.

He used to live for these moments, to play them over in his head during long drives, but now it just feels like the same old thing. Clint catches Coulson’s eye after his bows and the security manager smiles at him before he disappears behind the curtain.

The stars are out above him as he climbs up to the top of the trailer. It’s a new moon, the only light in the whole place coming from the big top. Instead of thinking about his performance and the audience as he whiles away the time, Clint thinks about Coulson and his dreams.

He can’t get that little NYC apartment out of his mind. His imagination fills in the gaps left in the dream: a single bedroom, a little living room with a nice couch where the two of them could curl up in front of the television, windows overlooking the rest of the city because where else could Clint live but as high in a building as possible.

Coulson in that damn Army Ranger sweatshirt and a soft pair of jeans.

Clint wants it like he hasn’t watched anything since he was an orphan on the streets, but he doesn’t understand why. Why Coulson, of all people. He’s three years older and probably the most unattainable person he knows.

The performance ends and Clint spends the next couple hours distracting himself doing everything from collecting casings for the sharpshooters to picking up the stands to helping Miren clean tack. Coulson pops in and out of his peripheral, keeping watch, but Clint pretends not to notice.

Saturday, their last day outside NYC, goes by much the same way. Clint reminds himself that Coulson was only hired to stick around as long as they were near the city. He doesn’t see why their security manager would want to stay once they’ve moved on—wherever that is. Surely he has a home and family and friends around here.

If Clint puts on an extra good show while Coulson is watching that night, then it’s just because he wants to finish off the week with a bang. If Coulson murmurs, “Amazing job” as he passes by, it’s just because he’ll be gone tomorrow.

In the morning Clint rolls off his mattress to the loud crashes and shouts of the poor performers who got roped into taking down the big top. He meets up with Miren in the animal tents. She pulls the horses out of their pens and hands them off to another equestrian to load onto the truck. Once all the horses are gone, Clint grabs a shovel and helps her load the old shavings into wheelbarrows.

Within three hours, the entire city of tents and trucks has been cleared into a patch of dirt and trampled grass once more.

“Go on,” Clint tells Miren as a truck pulls up next to them. “I’m going to check and make sure my bow is packed up. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Don’t get left behind.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek, quick and dry, and then swings easily into the backseat of the truck.

Clint jogs down the line of trucks until he finds the trailer of equipment. Hanging along the wall is his bow and quiver, safe and sound. He double-checks to make sure they’re secure—they are—and then hops out of the trailer.

“Got room?” Clint asks, knocking on the window of the first truck he comes to. It seems to be full of sharpshooters.

“Sorry, kid.” The driver shakes his head. “We’re full up. Try the next one.”

Clint nods and gives the next one a shot. And the next one. And the next one. Panic racks his insides as he sees the head car start out of the lot. He’s reaching for the door of the equipment trailer, figuring he can just brace himself against the floor or something, when someone catches his wrist.

“You can ride with me,” Coulson says as Clint looks up at him.

Clint lets go of the door handle just before the trailer pulls away. “I thought you were done with us after this week.”

“Not quite.” Coulson lets go of his wrist and starts walking, leading him over to a classic red Corvette with the top down. He slides easily into the drivers’ seat and Clint hesitates before climbing in the other side. “I told Boss this morning that I'm willing to stay,” Coulson continues as he starts the car. “At least for the time being.”

“Do you think there will be any problems?” Clint remembers the loan collectors. They didn’t seem to be the type easily swayed by a moving target.

Coulson shrugs. “We will see.”

They stay silent as Coulson follows the trucks ahead of them onto the dirt road and away. The wind tosses Clint’s hair and the landscape isn’t obscured by the dirt encrusted windows of their usual trucks.

“Thank you,” Clint says some time later. “For not leaving me behind.”

“Why would I do that?” Coulson looks over at him, one hand on the wheel. His hair looks casually ruffled in the wind.

“You barely know me.” Clint’s known most of the performers for years, ever since the day he arrived at the circus, and yet none of them were willing to budge up a bit to find him a space.

Coulson looks over at him, eyebrows raised. “What would you have done if I left you there?”

Clint doesn’t know how to answer that. He pictures that tiny trailer, bumping and riding along stretched out on the floor. He’d be trapped in that tiny, dark space for who knows how long. The idea sends a shudder down his spine.

“In that case, why don’t you tell me about yourself and then I’ll know more about you than the fact that you’re a phenomenal shot.” Coulson’s voice is soft and teasing, just loud enough to be heard over the whipping of the wind. “Why did you join the circus?”

Clint’s throat seems to be stuck closed. He doesn’t want Coulson to know the things he’d done before Trick Shot took him in, doesn’t want to see a look of disgust, or worse, pity.

“Okay, then.” Coulson pauses for a second, glances over to see if Clint is going to reply. “Let’s start over. I’m Phil Coulson, your security manager.”

Clint smiles, just the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Clint Barton, archer.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of watching your performances,” Coulson goes on, sounding oddly formal. “How long have you been practicing?”

“More than a few years.” Clint drums his fingers against the edge of the door.

“Do you enjoy it?”

Clint hesitates and then shrugs. He lives for those hours with a bow in his hand, but if it meant his freedom, he might be tempted to give it all up. “It’s something to do. What about you, Mr. Coulson? Have you always been a security manager?”

“Call me Phil.” His hand twitches against the wheel. “At least when the Boss isn’t around. I’m just another employee of the circus.”

Clint forgets to breathe for a second. “Okay. What about you, Phil?”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve been working odd jobs since the Army.” Phil’s face creases into a frown.

Clint’s dying to ask him why he left the Army, but he isn’t sure if that’s safe territory. “Do you live in New York City?” he asks instead.

“I don’t really _live_ anywhere,” Phil replies cryptically. “I have an apartment in New York, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Clint wonders what it looks like, if it’s anything at all like the apartment in his dreams. “Why did you take the job from Boss?”

“It’s all right. Money is always nice. And it gets me out of the city.”

Clint wonders if maybe he isn’t the only one trying to run away from something. “And, hey, free circus performances. That’s got to be a bonus.”

Phil chuckles and the sound makes Clint feel like he might actually float out of the car. “I suppose that is a nice bonus.”

Clint looks out of the car to see that their caravan is passing through a tiny town. There are only a few cars out on the road. People stare openly as they pass by. A little boy squeals and tugs at his mother’s hand, pointing at the animal trucks emblazoned with the circus’s logo.

“Were your parents in the circus?” Phil asks quietly as they drive out the other side of town and fields stretch out in front of them once more.

“No,” Clint replies. “Do your parents live in New York?”

“No.” Phil doesn’t elaborate and the miles flash by in silence. Endless stretches of fields broken by the occasional endless stretches of forest or the rare town. They’re driving through one of these, this one a little larger than most of the others, when Phil slows down and flicks on his turn signal. The caravan just stopped for gas an hour before, so Clint knows they shouldn’t be stopping.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“I’m hungry.” Phil nods at the Dairy Queen in front of them. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch up.”

Clint doesn’t protest, unsure how to tell him that no one stops for any reason without the whole of the caravan. He would have thought that is obvious.

Phil parks in an empty spot and steps out, stretching his back. He’s halfway to the door before he realizes Clint’s not following. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks, turning around.

Clint shakes his head. His legs ache from sitting for so long but he doesn’t even want to get out to stretch them. “Go on. I don’t need anything.”

“All right.” Phil shrugs and ducks through the door. Clint resists his urge to hide under the seat as people pass by, staring openly. He’s used to being on display, but not like this. Not while sitting in Coulson’s shiny ride Corvette.

Fifteen minutes later, Phil returns with two bags and slides back into the drivers’ seat. He tosses one of the bags into Clint’s lap.

“What’s this?” he asks.

Phil snorts, pulling a chicken sandwich out of his bag. “Open it and find out.”

Clint obeys, pulling open the top of the paper bag cautiously. Inside is a burger, a carton of fries, and a small chocolate sundae. Phil drops a cup of something into his cup holder. “I can’t…”

“Eat it.” Phil takes a bite of his sandwich, hums, and starts up the car. “I’m not going to and there’s no use of it going to waste.”

“There’s no way I can pay you back.” The smell of the hamburger is making his mouth water but he can’t bring himself to crinkle up the bag.

Phil gives him a sad look before he concentrates on the road so they can pull out of the parking lot. “Eat.”

This time Clint doesn’t protest. He grabs the hamburger and takes a bite. It’s the best thing he’s tasted since his mom cooked for him when he was young. They haven’t even left town before the burger is gone and he’s started in on the sundae.

“Thank you,” Clint murmurs as he savors every bite of chocolate topping and vanilla ice cream.

Phil waves a hand at him, still holding the remaining half of his sandwich. “It’s no problem.”

When Clint’s done, he leans back in the seat and lets his eyes slip half-closed. He feels more full than he has in months and sleepy despite the wind blowing against his face. Before he knows what’s happening, he’s waking up again to endless fields of thigh-high corn.

“Where are we?” Clint asks, rubbing at his eyes.

“Ohio.” Phil sits forward and rolls his shoulders. “We’ve still got a long way to go yet, if you want to sleep more.”

His words send an unexplainable shiver down Clint’s spine. “I’m good.” They lapse into silence for a few miles before he says, “Tell me about all the places you’ve been.” He tries not to sound like he’s begging, but it probably comes out that way anyway.

Coulson tenses and then relaxes again before he starts to speak. The words come easily and the miles flash by, Clint lost in the sound of Phil’s voice. He sticks to the U.S. at first—the red woods in California, the Atlantic Ocean during a thunderstorm, the dense woods of Maine, the rich cliffs of the Grand Canyon.

They’re passing a sign welcoming them to Indiana when Phil shifts to talk about his wartime travels, mostly the choking sands of Afghanistan, but other places too. The pyramids in Egypt. A couple weeks in a South American jungle.

Phil has a way of telling stories that makes Clint feel like he’s really there, and not stuck in an endless corn field. “Tell me about a place you’ve been,” Phil says.

Clint wrings his hands in his lap. He doesn’t want to talk about anywhere he’s been with the circus, mostly because none of that is interesting. Those places were just an endless blur of names associated with shards of surroundings. He can’t—won’t—tell him about any of his excursions with Trick Shot.

Finally, Clint settles on the first time he went to the Iowa State Fair with his brother. He talks about all the animals and the rides and Barney convincing him to eat an entire elephant ear by himself right before getting on one of those rides that just spins really fast in a circle.

“What happened to your brother?” Phil asks, breaking through Clint’s memories.

He shrugs. “He left.”

Phil doesn’t ask any more questions and Clint doesn’t offer up a proper answer. In another couple hours, Phil is pulling off the highway and guiding them along stretches of smaller roads. “Where are we going this time?” Clint asks.

“You don’t know?” Phil raises his eyebrows at him in surprise.

“It’s not really important. I’m not the one navigating.”

He expects Phil to laugh at him, but he doesn’t. “Chicago,” he answers. In twenty minutes, they’ve found the rest of the circus caravan in an empty county fairground. There are buildings around them, quiet and haunting.

Clint can already see Miren unloading the horses from their trailer and moving them into a line of stalls. Before he can hop out of the car to join her, Boss appears from his trailer and starts toward them. His face is twisted into a sneer that Clint has never seen before and it’s more terrifying than the day he’d found out the Swordsman had abandoned the circus with several thousand dollars in his pockets.

“Barton!” Boss shouts, his voice cracking like a whip. “How could you bother Mr. Coulson like this?”

Phil holds up his hand, sitting up in the seat. The smile that he’s been wearing for the last few hours alone with Clint slips off his face and his entire expression goes hard. “He’s been no trouble at all.”

“We’ll see about that.” Boss fixes his gaze on Clint and jerks his head toward the stables. “Miren needs help. Get to it.”

Phil looks like he wants to protest further, but he doesn’t get the chance. Boss spins on his heel and hurries away to supervise the unloading of the big top, even though he knows very little about how to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, wishing he could sink straight through the smooth upholstery of the Corvette and disappear. “I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

“I haven’t done anything wrong and neither have you.” Phil smiles at him, driving slowly through the crowd to find a safe place to park. “Let me know if he gives you any problems for riding with me.”

“I will,” Clint says, though he doubts he’d be able to go through with the promise. He can’t pit Phil against the boss of both of them.

Phil stops away from everyone else and turns off the car. “Thanks for making my drive a lot more enjoyable.”

“Thank you for not leaving me behind,” Clint says as he gets out. He pauses while he tries to figure out what else can be said.

“Go check on your bow,” Phil replies, waving him off with a wink and a knowing smile. Clint obeys, shouting to Miren that he’ll be right over to help her as he jogs over to the equipment trailer. As worried as he always is about the condition of his bow after a long trip, he can’t shake the feeling that something in his life is changing without his realizing it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the wonderful comments! I'm under a lot of stress right now and they really do make my day. :)

Miren manages to wait until the two of them are alone before she starts interrogating Clint about his ride with Coulson. “I thought I told you not to get left behind,” she says. “How’d you end up with Coulson? What was that even like? What did Boss say? Are you in trouble?”

“Slow down, Miren.” Clint holds up his hand to stem the flow of questions. “I didn’t get left behind. I was with Coulson.”

“But how did it happen?” Miren tosses shovels full of shavings into stalls.

Clint glances around to make sure they’re relatively alone and tells her the whole story—minus the part where they stopped at Dairy Queen. He feels guilty for not thinking about saving her anything.

“Are you going to ride with him all the time?” Miren raises an eyebrow at him suggestively and Clint taps her with the end of his shovel.

“And miss all of your stories?” he teases her. “Not a chance. Now come on. We need to get this done so I can go practice.”

***

The Chicago crowd for their first night is raucous and excited, forcing Coulson to miss Clint’s performance for the first time since he joined them. They push at the barriers and if the shouting outside is anything to go by, there’s more than a fight or two going on.

Clint goes through the motions and feels strangely lonely for standing there in front of hundreds of people. He feels like a robot, pulling back his bow and hitting the targets. He almost forgets to bow at the end of his performance and he makes a beeline for the top of the trailer the moment he’s free.

That night, Clint falls into bed and reaches immediately for his knife. Just to remind himself that some things will always be there.

***

In the morning, Coulson finds him shooting at targets with his eyes closed.

“Adding blindfolds to your performance?” Coulson asks, grinning.

Clint lowers the bow and opens his eyes. “Too dangerous. All it would take is me getting turned around to shoot someone.” Not that the idea would stop Boss from ordering him to do it if he found out Clint has the ability.

“That’s true.” Coulson leans against the trailer, not seeming to notice that the back of his coat is getting covered in a thick layer of dust.

“You missed my performance last night.” The words are out before Clint has a chance to think about them. He hadn’t really thought about how much that’s bothering him.

“Fender bender in the parking lot came to blows,” Coulson answers, so casually it’s like they’re discussing whether popcorn is better with extra butter or without. “I had to go break it up and you were done by the time I came back.”

Clint nods, not sure what to say to that. It’s not Coulson’s job to be his personal cheering section, but he’s gotten so used to the man watching him that he’s not sure how to perform otherwise.

“I should probably continue my round.” Coulson sounds almost _disappointed_ as he pushes himself up off the trailer. Clint laughs at the film of dirt and dust that sticks to his coat.

“Here let me,” Clint says, watching Coulson try to twist his arms around to brush off his own back.

“Thanks.” Coulson lets his arms drop and stands still. Clint walks around him and brushes away the dust, trying to pretend he can’t feel the shifting muscles underneath.

“There.” Clint steps back once the worst of it is gone. Coulson smiles at him in thanks and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something. He seems to think better of it because he closes his mouth again and walks away.

Clint goes back to practicing, wondering if he just missed something right in front of him. Miren’s always told him that he sees better from a distance. He’d never admit it to her, but she’s probably right.

“You’re so into him.” Miren’s voice startles him as she steps around the back end of the trailer and into view. Her hands are tucked into her pockets and she looks so proud of herself for figuring it out.

“I am not.” Clint picks up an arrow from the ground and notches it.

“He’s into you too, if that helps.” She leans against the trailer, already too dirty for it to matter if she gets covered in dust, and watches him loose the arrow. It thumps into the red circle.

Clint hesitates before he reaches for another arrow. His hands are shaking so much he’s not sure he can aim properly. “How do you know?”

Miren shrugs. “I can just tell.”

“Really.” Clint takes a deep breath and lets another arrow fly. “And what could a twenty-year-old ex-Army Ranger possibly see in a scrawny kid that shoots arrows at targets for a living?”

“Maybe you should ask him that.” She pushes off the trailer and snatches up his last arrow as he reaches for it. “I need someone to hold horses for the farrier. Can you help?”

Clint snatches the arrow out of her hand and shoots it. “Sure. Just let me put my bow away.”

Most of the horses are so well-behaved that they could probably just hold themselves while the farrier trims away the excess hoof and gives them shiny new shoes. It gives him plenty of time to mull over Miren’s words while he stands there and makes sure the horses don’t try to move out from under the practiced hands of the farrier.

Clint doesn’t know what he feels for Coulson, but he knows that he wants him. Wants to kiss him good morning and cuddle up to him at night. Wants to see Coulson’s face beaming with pride after each and every performance. Wants to kiss away the bruises when Coulson has to break up a particularly troublesome fight. He _wants_ Coulson.

But there’s nothing that he can possibly offer in return. He doesn’t have anywhere that he calls home. He has no present and no future. They’ll never be able to spend any time alone or go out on a real date. Boss doesn’t really care about his performers dating, but Clint doesn’t know how he would feel if it’s a performer and a security manager.

Clint shakes his head. None of this even matters if Coulson doesn’t feel the same way about him.

The crowd that night must be calmer than the previous because Coulson doesn’t miss a moment of Clint’s performance. For once Clint sticks around in the back with everyone else, just to see if Coulson watches anyone else.

He doesn’t. Coulson disappears as soon as Clint walks out of the arena and doesn’t come back.

Clint doesn’t know what to do with this once he realizes it.

The next night, right before the performance starts, Clint sorts out a couple dollars worth of quarters from his stash and convinces the hot dog vendor to sell him a couple before he officially opens for the evening.

Coulson is standing outside the big top, watching early cars pull in. Clint hands him one of the hot dogs without a word.

“What’s this for?” Coulson asks, pulling the foil aside.

Clint shrugs, already halfway through his own. “I thought you might be hungry. You’ve been standing out here for a while.”

“You thought right.” Coulson takes a bite of the hot dog and hums at the relish. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Clint looks away, too afraid to admit that he was spying on Coulson from the top of the trailer and saw him getting a hot dog one day.

“It was a good one.” They stand next to each other in silence as Coulson finishes it off. “Ready for tonight?”

“Always.” Clint knows that he should probably be picking up his bow right now and checking all his equipment over, but he can’t bring himself to leave. It can wait a few more minutes. “Are you…coming to watch me?”

Coulson gives him a smile, a strange look in his eyes. “If there aren’t any problems tonight.”

“In that case, I hope everyone’s on their best behavior.” Clint smiles back and the words are out of his mouth before he can think about them and how true they are. He walks away before Coulson has a chance to respond to fetch his bow from the trailer.

The audience must be calm enough because Coulson turns up just before Clint’s performance and stays through the whole thing. Clint catches his eye and winks as he takes his bows.

It’s raining when Clint pushes his way out through the curtains at the back of the tent. He wrinkles his nose and settles down on the ground, trying to stay as dry as possible without actually going back inside.

The rain is coming down harder when Coulson comes circling around the tent. He takes one look at Clint and slips off his coat, wrapping it around him.

“Thanks,” Clint murmurs, tugging the coat closer against his body and trying not to inhale Coulson’s scent.

“What are you doing out here?” Coulson asks, hugging the tent wall to stay under the little overhang.

Clint shrugs. “It’s too cramped inside.” He thinks about telling him all about his usual hiding spot on top of the truck but that’s _his_ place and he’s not sure that he’s willing to share it with anyone. “Smells better out here anyway.”

“That’s true.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “The show is almost over.”

“I know.” Clint huddles beneath the coat as a cool wind blasts the both of them. “I’m good at knowing when I have to be back for clean-up.”

“I have to go do another round.” Coulson steps out away from the tent and wrinkles his nose at the rain coming down. “Keep my coat warm until I get back.”

Clint nods in agreement and watches Coulson go. As soon as he’s out of view, he tucks his face into the thick fleece beneath the waterproof exterior and breathes in the smell of aftershave, cologne, and a hint of gunpowder. It’s rough and clean at the same time.

Coulson comes back just before the show ends, while Clint’s trying to decide what he’ll do with the coat if he doesn’t show up in time. He regretfully untangles himself from the warmth and hands it back to him.

“Why do you come to watch me?” Clint blurts out as Coulson slips his arms back in the coat and sighs at the warmth.

He laughs as he pushes a hand through his damp hair, making it look ruffled and hotter than anything should. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I feel like I can only see you when you’re shooting. It’s the only time you really let go.”

Clint stares back at him in surprised silence. How can Coulson possibly read him so well after only knowing him for a week and a half? Before he can figure out what to say, a storm of cheers erupts in the big top and Miren sticks her head through the curtains.

“Get in here,” she says to Clint and then disappears again.

He still hasn’t looked away from Coulson. The security manager is biting his bottom lip, looking oddly confused. “You should probably go,” Coulson says.

He’s right. Boss will probably be looking for a reason to punish him for something and being late to clean-up would be the perfect excuse. “I should,” he murmurs, wanting nothing more than to step forward and smooth down Coulson’s hair. Maybe fix that spot where the collar of his coat is sticking up. It would be so easy to lean in and kiss him from there.

Lightning splits the sky above, causing Coulson to turn around and breaking the spell. “I’ll see you,” Clint says, though he’s not sure Coulson can hear him over the crack of thunder that follows. He doesn’t wait for a response before pushing through the curtains into the tent.

Everyone inside the tent is frantic, hurrying to get the animals settled, the equipment under cover, the big top cleaned up, and everything battened down in light of the storm. Clint helps Miren lead the horses to their stables and toss flakes of hay in for them. Then he helps someone else throw tarps over the bales to protect them from rain that might get blown in during the night.

After that there’s a leak to be plugged in one of the trailers.

The poles anchoring the big top have to be checked.

A few of the horses are riled up by the storm and need to be calmed. Clint’s rubbish at that job but he can at least make sure that Miren doesn’t need any help.

By the time he’s allowed to climb into his trailer that night, he’s cold and covered in mud and his hair is soaked and clinging to his face. Clint cleans off as best he can, changes into dry clothes, and huddles up beneath his flimsy blankets.

He falls asleep that night to wishes that Coulson was cuddled up next to him, if only so Clint could slip his hands beneath his shirt to warm them.

***

His head feels like it’s splitting open. Clint groans and shoves his face underneath the pillow, feeling like his insides have turned to lead. Where last night he felt like he was freezing, now his skin feels like it’s on fire.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Miren says, pulling aside the curtains that separate his cubicle from hers.

Clint opens his mouth to respond and all that comes out is a horrible hacking cough.

“Oh Clint.” Miren closes the curtains again, cloaking them in darkness once more. “Do you need anything? Are you going to be able to perform tonight?”

He doesn’t even want to think about _standing_ at the moment. It takes three tries of him clearing his throat before he’s able to say, “Water, please.”

Miren nods and disappears out of the trailer again. Clint pulls the blankets tighter around him, shivering despite the heat radiating from his skin. He wakes from a daze to Miren’s return with a bottle of water. It rasps against his throat as he gulps it down.

“I’ll cover for you this morning,” she says, wandering over to her space and returning with her own blankets. “Use these if you need to. I’ll bring you something for lunch, okay?”

Clint nods as he sets the bottle of water aside. Miren leaves again and he settles down and closes his eyes.

His dreams are confused and feverish, Coulson and Barney popping in and out in equal measure. His mother shows up, ghostly in appearance, and says, “He’s a nice young man. You should bring him to dinner sometime.” His dad’s voice echoes curse words and incoherent ramblings.

Clint shoots arrows at flaming targets that circle above him. They blink in and out of existence, the arrows that miss thudding into the ground at his feet. Coulson watches from the shadows, shaking his head with disappointment in his eyes.

Clint has to jump back as an arrow almost hits him. When he looks up again, Barney is there instead, saying, “You’d never be able to take orders. The Army would eat you alive.”

“Don’t leave me,” Clint begs, arrows that he doesn’t remember shooting raining down around him.

Barney turns back into Coulson. “Why would I stay?” he asks in a vicious voice that Clint has never heard before, not even all those times he had to break up a fight or kick people out of the big top.

Clint wakes in a tangle of blankets, thrashing on his mattress. He gulps down the rest of the water and tosses the bottle away. It rolls across the floor and Miren kicks it as she pushes her way through the curtains.

Except it’s not Miren. She always wears bright pink sneakers, unless she’s performing. Those are black leather shoes.

Clint looks up, taking in dress pants, a suit coat, and then Coulson’s concerned face. His arms are crossed over his chest, laden with bottles of water, some kind of medicine, and what looks like a thermos.

“What are you doing here?” Clint rasps, struggling to sit up.

“I didn’t see you anywhere around this morning,” Coulson explains, kneeling next to him to set down his burdens. “Miren told me you’re sick.”

“I’m fine.” Clint’s body seizes up in the hold of another coughing fit. By the time he’s finished, Coulson has opened the first of the bottles of water and is holding it to his lips. He gulps down half of it eagerly and then settles back against the pillows.

“Seriously, you don’t have to do this.” Every word hurts. “I just need some rest. I’ll be ready to perform—”

“Shut up,” Coulson says before placing a thermometer under his tongue. Clint glares up at him but stays quiet anyway. After a moment, he’s allowed to spit it out and Coulson squints at it in the dim light. “You’re running a fever.”

“I figured that much.” Clint closes his eyes against the bolt of pain rocketing around his skull.

Coulson opens the thermos and hands it to him. “It’s just soup, I promise.”

Clint takes a sip. The warmth of the broth feels nice on his throat and he takes another gulp. While he drinks, Coulson talks about what’s going on outside.

One of the horses kicked through the back of the stables in the middle of the night. He’s a bit scratched up, but going to be fine. The boards, on the other hand, are going to have to be replaced before the stall can be used again.

A tree fell down next to the big top. It didn’t cause any damage but Boss isn’t very happy about the close call.

The new shipment of hot dogs is late, but the company is promising that it’ll be here in time for the night’s show. Coulson isn’t so sure.

“Shouldn’t you be out there keeping watch?” Clint asks as he hands the thermos back. His throat doesn’t hurt quite as much.

Coulson glances back over his shoulder. “Someone will give a shout if they need anything. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you,” Clint replies without thinking. He accepts the pair of pills from Coulson and chases them with a swallow of water.

“You shouldn’t perform tonight.” He stares intently at the bottle of pills in his hand as he twists the cap back on. “You can barely stand.”

“I have to.” Clint’s eyes shine with determination and he struggles to push himself up. “You know as well as I do that Boss won’t let me miss a show.”

“You’re _sick._ I’ll talk to him.” Coulson starts to stand up but Clint grabs his wrist. His skin feels oddly cold under his touch.

“Please don’t. I promise if I’m not better by show time, I won’t perform. I’ll get someone to talk to him.” Clint’s throat becomes increasingly more painful as he continues to talk so he has to let go of Coulson to gulp down some more water.

“Okay.” Coulson gathers up the empty water bottles and the thermos. “I promise I won’t say a word.”

“Thank you,” Clint murmurs, falling back beneath the blankets. He already feels ready to drift back to sleep.

“Anytime.” His hand ruffles Clint’s hair, so gently that he’s sure he must imagine it, before Coulson straightens up and leaves.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick head's up, the next chapter might be a few days late because it's finals week and I'll be packing up to make the journey home this weekend. I will attempt to get the chapter up on Monday as usual, but I'll have to see how things work out.

Clint drags himself out of bed just in time to stumble into the tent for his performance. His fever broke hours ago but he still feels exhausted.

The show passes in a blur of targets, arrows, and clapping that sends his skull pounding again. He assumes by the crowd’s reactions that he hits every one but he can’t confirm that himself. Clint doesn’t even know how he can see to aim.

Coulson pushes a pair of pills and a cup of water into his hand the moment he steps out. “Miren and I will cover things for you,” he says, taking the bow from Clint’s other hand and slipping the quiver off his back. “You go back to bed.”

Clint stares at his bow—remembering that he never trusts anyone else to touch it—and then nods. Downs the pills and the water in a single swallow. He’s barely awake when he falls into bed.

In the morning, there’s only an occasional cough left behind to remind him that he was ever sick. He steps out into the sun just in time to see Coulson making his pass near their trailer.

“How are you?” Coulson asks, pausing next to him.

“Better.” Clint shuffles his feet in the dirt. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Coulson waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”

Clint agrees but it weighs on his mind that this is the second time Coulson has saved him. The third, if you count when he didn’t sell him, Brandi, and Miren out for that night in the city.

Then Clint remembers last night, handing off his bow, and runs for the equipment trailer. There it is, safe and sound, in its usual spot. His quiver is there too, the arrows from last night stacked in a neat pile next to it and waiting for his inspection. It’s just like he would have done, if he’d been in a good enough state last night to put away his own stuff.

“Everything okay?” Coulson asks, appearing outside the door.

Clint doesn’t know how to voice that he doesn’t even let Miren store his bow, and she’d never be able to do it like this anyway. So instead he says, “Everything’s perfect.”

He broke two arrows last night so he tosses those out and tucks the rest in the quiver. Coulson wanders off at some point, presumably back to his round.

***

Clint’s shooting at targets when Boss prances up, strutting in a rich black suit that looks brand new. Clint doesn’t say anything. Just keeps shooting.

“You’re going to shoot a hat off Miren’s head during her show,” Boss announces, like that’s the simplest thing he could think of.

Clint drops his arrow in surprise. Trick Shot pulled stunts like that in his day but Clint has only ever shot at targets. Things that won’t _die_ if he’s an inch or two off.

“She’s going to practice in a half hour,” Boss goes on. “I suggest you do the same.”

This can’t be happening. He can’t be serious.

“Is that clear?” Boss snaps when it’s obvious that Clint isn’t going to answer any time soon.

“Yes, sir.” He reaches down for his arrow so he doesn’t have to look Boss in the face as he says it.

“Good.” Boss slaps him on the back. “Half an hour. Don’t forget, Barton.” Without waiting for a response, he walks away.

“Is he insane?” Clint asks Miren when he meets up with her on schedule. “I can’t do this.”

Miren pulls on a beaten black cowboy hat, making sure there’s enough room for him to aim. “I trust you.”

Clint nods, not having the heart to say that makes one of them. He watches Miren warm up and calms his nerves by shooting at targets along another wall.

“You ready?” Miren asks, sliding the chestnut mare she’s riding to a halt.

Clint swallows hard and nods, notching an arrow to the string. Miren urges her horse up into a canter, hair streaming out from under the hat. Clint wonders if Boss would allow them to add a strip of pink, something more substantial for him to aim at.

Probably not.

Clint inhales softly, eyes fixed on the hat and tracking its movement. Miren turns along the back wall, the one away from the crowd and the curtains the performers wait behind.

Now.

Clint releases the arrow. Miren’s hat goes flying. She grins as she slows the mare and walks over to him.

“You did it!”

Clint’s heart is still racing as he walks over to pick up the arrow and her hat. He doesn’t trust himself to answer.

“Ready to do it again?” she asks as she shoves the hat back onto her head, trying to balance it the same way as before.

Clint nods, not entirely certain that the first time hadn’t been a dream. “Sure.”

They run through the whole thing two more times before Clint calls it quits. He’s not sure that his heart can take another round of this.

“You got this,” Miren tells him as she swings down. “The crowd will eat it up tonight.”

Clint doesn’t care about the crowd for once, as long as he doesn’t accidentally shoot her.

For the rest of the day, he takes refuge on top of the trailer, watching everyone pass by around him. Coulson looks up once or twice but Clint ducks down every time.

He doesn’t know what he’ll say if Coulson asks him what’s wrong, doesn’t want him to get involved in this mess.

Clint climbs down about four and bolts a bowl of stew with the other performers. Miren claps him on the back and tells him everything is going to be fine. The sharpshooters tell him stunts like this are just like breathing and then trade tales about their first big stunts.

None of it helps. Especially one sharpshooter who tells a story about an act that somehow ended with him shooting himself in the foot.

“Don’t listen to him,” Miren says once they’re outside and alone. “He had a shot of whiskey that day to steady his nerves and I think it went straight to his head.”

Clint swallows hard. He hasn’t been this nervous for a performance since the first, when it was the deciding factor of whether or not he and Barney would be allowed to stay with the circus. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” Miren pats him on the shoulder and heads back into the mess tent.

The next couple hours pass too quickly for Clint’s liking and before he knows it that dull hum signaling the arrival of the crowd echoes over the fairground. He retrieves his bow as the first to go start preparing.

His own show calms him down with its familiarity. At the end he turns to see Coulson watching. Smiling. Clapping.

Then Miren steps out with her black gelding and it feels like all the oxygen in the world has been sucked out of the air. Clint lurks on the other side of the curtain for his cue. She and the others will do most of their performance and then he’ll enter for the finale.

A kid on a chestnut pony exits—Clint thinks everyone calls him Spitfire—and says, “You’re up.”

Clint’s mouth feels too dry to thank him as he pushes through the curtain. Immediately something is wrong.

Every time they’d practiced that morning it had been just him and Miren. Tonight there are two more equestrians in the arena. They’re galloping in circles at the moment, each of them standing on their mount’s back.

Clint steps to the middle and notches an arrow anyway. He inhales deeply and tells himself that this doesn’t change his job. It’s still the same shot at the same target.

The crowd starts to chatter as he pulls the bowstring back and aims at Miren. She canters along in front of the crowd, Clint tracking the hat.

She turns along the back wall. He inhales.

Clint’s so focused on the target that he doesn’t notice that one of the younger equestrians is getting too close. His horse bumps Miren’s and she bobbles slightly just a split second before Clint releases the arrow.

His heart stops. The arrow just barely misses her head, passing through her billowing hair before striking the wall. Clint fixes his eyes on it as it quivers there. The crowd murmurs around them.

Miren catches his eye and flicks her hand on him. Clint obeys, rushing through the curtains. He wants nothing more than to climb up to the top of the trailer and stay there for several days, but Boss towers over him the moment he exits.

“Stay,” he says, his voice echoing in the terrifying silence.

Clint has no choice but to sink into the shadows as much as he can and wait for the hammer to fall. The moment Miren and the other two leave the arena, Boss orders them to hand off their horses and come with him.

Boss radiates rage and terror as he leads the three of them out back, away from any witnesses. Clint hasn’t seen him this angry in years and it’s not something he wants to experience now.

“You almost ruined everything tonight,” he shouts, of course more concerned about the performance than Miren’s life. “Can you imagine what it would have done for us if that arrow had hit someone?”

Clint stares at the ground, determined to keep his face blank—or at least hidden. His hands shake and he clenches them around his bow to keep them still. It wouldn’t have hit someone, it would have hit Miren, and it wasn’t like this was any of their idea.

“I thought you practiced?” he goes on. “I thought the trick was ready.”

Miren stares up at him, looking like she’s trying to shrink herself down to the size of a mouse. “We did, sir, but…”

“No excuses. I won’t ask you to do it again here because I don’t want anyone sayin’ my show isn’t up to snuff.” Boss glares at each of them in turn. “But I want you practicing every day so it’s ready by St. Louis…”

“No.” Clint speaks for the first time, startling all three of them and himself with the force in that one word.

“What did you say?” Boss steps forward, intimidating him with his voice and body. “I could have sworn you said something, boy.”

“I said no.” Clint steps forward. He’s not much shorter than Boss and when he draws himself up straight it doesn’t seem like anything at all. “I’m not doing the trick again. Get one of the sharpshooters if you want it to be part of the show so bad but leave me out of it.”

For a second, something hard flashes in Boss’s eyes and he looks like he’s about to strike out. Then he just barely nods. “Fine.”

Clint relaxes, all the fight running out of him.

Boss turns to the boy. “Irvyn, you’re out. I’ll give you tonight to pack your things and make arrangements but if you’re still here in the morning, I’ll escort you off the premises myself. Is that clear?”

Irvyn is so white he looks like he might faint on the spot. He’s probably about fifteen, but looks so much younger with Boss glowering down at him. “Yes, sir,” he squeaks.

“Good. You two get cleaning.” Boss nods at Miren and Clint and storms away. The three of them glance at each other. Miren opens her mouth as she rests her hand on Irvyn’s shoulder, but there’s nothing either of them can say that will make tonight any easier.

So Clint leaves. Goes to the trailer and takes his time putting his bow away, spending several minutes just bent over on the floor trying to remember how to breathe. Nothing like this has ever happened to him in his years with the circus. He’s never almost hit anyone, not even that one time Boss ordered him to shoot down apples that the audience tossed into the air.

He’s also never been partially responsible for getting anyone kicked out of the circus. If he’d just held on to his shot for a second longer, let Miren regain her balance so that he could compensate for it, Irvyn wouldn’t be packing up his things right now. He wouldn’t have lost his home and his family.

When Clint can’t procrastinate any longer, he joins Miren in the big top to finish picking up. They don’t say a word the whole time, until the floor is spotless.

“I’m going to bed,” Miren says as she steps down onto the arena sand. “You know none of this was your fault, Clint.”

“Yes it was.” He waves her on. “You go on. I’ll be around in a while.”

Miren looks like she wants to argue, but instead she shakes her head and walks away. Clint sits down on the bottom row of seats and stares out over the empty arena. He usually hates to sit in the big top when there isn’t a performance, but tonight it seems right. A couple of performers pop in and out, but they don’t say a word to him.

Clint knows that they’ve heard what happened by now, that some of them will probably help Irvyn to pack up his things. They have no idea how to deal with him.

He knows that he should probably go to bed, but he can’t stop replaying the shot over and over again in his head. The slow roll of the hat on Miren’s head in time with the pace of her horse. The way the rhythm changed when Irvyn’s horse bumped hers. He remembers the change, the moment of horror that shot through him when he realized he’d already let the arrow go.

Unable to take it anymore, Clint stands and wanders to the center of the arena. The scuff his boots would have made in the dirt is gone, obscured by the hooves and feet of the other performers, but he knows exactly where they would be. He steps into that spot and raises his arms like he’s holding his bow, imagining Miren galloping in circles around him.

Why didn’t they practice with the other equestrians?

Why didn’t he just tell Boss “no” in the first place?

Why hadn’t he just _waited?_

“It’s late.” The voice makes him jump and Clint turns to see Coulson standing just inside the curtains. “You should sleep.”

“I can’t.” Clint turns away again, Coulson’s feet making soft sounds in the sand as he steps across the arena toward him.

“There’s nothing you can do now.” Warmth wraps around him and Clint glances down to see Coulson’s coat draped over his shoulders. “I made arrangements for Irvyn to take a taxi into the city. I offered to make some calls, but he told me that he’ll be fine.”

“Thank you.” He clings to the coat like a lifeline. “If I’d only held on to that arrow for a second longer…I could have _killed_ someone today.”

Coulson doesn’t say anything, just stays behind Clint’s shoulder where he can’t see him unless he turns. Then, “How do you not know how amazing you are?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I just said I almost killed Miren.” Clint twists his head around to look into Coulson’s face. His eyes are wide and full of expression that he’s not sure he’s ever seen before. Whatever it is, the look sends shivers down his spine.

“No.” Coulson shakes his head, stepping closer so that he’s within Clint’s line of sight. “You adjusted your shot at the last second. You missed on purpose.”

No, that couldn’t be right. By the time he’d noticed that Miren had even moved, he’d already released the arrow. But the longer Clint thinks about it, the more he realizes Coulson is right. In that split second of paralyzing horror of recognition, his muscles had twitched the tiniest movement to the right, just enough to knock the arrow off course.

“I was watching,” Coulson continues. His face is so close and his body looks so solid in that white shirt with the sleeves partially rolled up. “I saw the whole thing.”

“Then why couldn’t I make the right shot?”

Coulson reaches out and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Because that’s not what your instincts told you to do.” It makes sense. He’d never wanted to do the trick in the first place, it certainly wasn’t the first thing on his mind. In that moment he’d only been thinking about avoiding Miren. “Your instincts are smart. You should trust them.”

So Clint does. He reaches out for Coulson, wrapping both of his arms around the other man’s waist and pulling him into a hug. The coat slips to the ground but the warmth in his arms is more than enough. He rests his cheek against that chest, listening to the heart beat underneath.

Clint wants to wake up to that sound every morning for the rest of his life. It’s nice but it doesn’t stop him from wanting more. Needing more. He pulls away, just enough to lean in again and kiss Coulson.

He lingers there for a moment and then draws back again, opening his eyes to look into Coulson’s. The other man looks surprised, a little starstruck, but he doesn’t push him away. Clint remembers a conversation—it feels like ages ago—when Coulson told him why he loves to watch him perform.

“How’s this for letting go?” Clint murmurs before he kisses Coulson again. It’s soft and slow and nothing like he imagined when he allowed his mind to wander, but perfect all the same. One of Coulson’s hands wraps around the back of his neck, while the other hooks through Clint’s belt loop and pulls him in just that little bit closer.


	6. Chapter 6

Clint doesn’t have time to see Coulson in the morning. As soon as he rolls off his mattress, Miren is there shoving a cup of lukewarm “coffee” (to be honest, it’s mostly water) in his face and reminding him that they’re moving out again today.

“Milwaukee,” she says.

The previous night comes flooding back as Clint makes sure all of his things are secure and helps Miren load up the horses. He’d almost shot Miren. Irvyn had been kicked out. He’d kissed Coulson.

Clint feels better about Irvyn’s departure knowing that Coulson helped him out, but that doesn’t change the fact that his entire life is gone. He knows he’s not the only one that joined up with the circus and stays because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go.

The trick had to be part of Boss’s plan to make enough money to pay back his loans.

His loans.

Clint slams the door of the equipment trailer in his haste to get out. Boss is still in his trailer, probably sleeping until the last minute before they hit the road. Clint pounds on the door until he answers.

Boss looks downright murderous, wrapped up in plaid pajamas and a silk robe, but Clint doesn’t back down.

“What do you want, boy?” Boss snaps, glaring down at him. He’s not quite as threatening while still blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“I want you to bring Irvyn back,” Clint says before he can have any second thoughts.

“He left hours ago. What do you want me to do about it?”

“Whatever it takes.” Clint steps up onto the first step into the trailer, forcing Boss to lean back. “If you don’t, I’ll tell everyone about those guys that showed up in New York.”

Boss sneers at him even as he pales. “You don’t know anything, kid. Go pack up your bow.”

“I know you owe them money.” Clint pauses to make sure he’s heard. “I know you hired Coulson in case they come to collect.”

Boss’s fists clench, but then he glances over Clint’s shoulder to behind where the other performers are probably packing everything up. Too many witnesses for his taste.

“Maybe you should ask Coulson for help in tracking him down,” Clint suggests, unable to keep the note of snark from his voice.

Boss nods and then says, sounding oddly defeated, “Get out of here before you get left behind.”

Clint steps back off the step and stalks away. It only takes him a few minutes to secure everything and find an open spot in a truck with Miren.

He can’t help but remember the trip here with Coulson, and wish he could catch a ride in that convertible again. If he’s right, though, Coulson will have to be the one to fetch Irvyn and he can’t tag along for that. He’s already pushed his luck with Boss enough for one weekend.

Within half an hour, they’re on the road again. Clint actually has a window seat for once, and the air rushing through the open window sends his hair flying around his face.

It reminds him of Coulson again and he glances out the back window, just checking to see if he can catch a glimpse of red in the distance.

Was last night just a one night thing or was there more to it than that?

The trip to Milwaukee is shorter than most, but still much longer than Clint ever wants to be crammed into a car. He completes his customary bow check as soon as the equipment trailer pulls in and then goes to help Miren with the horses. They’re not at a fairground this time around, so he throws himself into helping to set up the metal enclosures.

Clint is forking in shavings when silence falls over the entire circus. It’s eerie, the way everyone seems to freeze in place.

Then there’s the sound of an engine rolling through the middle of everything.

Clint catches a glimpse of a red convertible through the open side of the animal tent. It’s Coulson and he’s not alone. Irvyn’s there, as promised.

He lets out a heavy sigh of relief. After everything he’d said to Boss, Clint still hadn’t been able to completely believe that Irvyn would be brought back.

“Is that…?” Miren lets her words trail off, leaning over like that will give her a better view.

“Irvyn,” Clint confirms, turning back to the wheelbarrow of shavings.

“How?” It’s another few seconds before Miren joins him, repeatedly glancing back over her shoulder like she has to make sure the whole thing wasn’t a mirage.

Clint doesn’t answer. He doesn’t know what kind of explanation Irvyn will come up with, but he hopes that it doesn’t involve him. No one needs to know what he said.

Within twenty minutes, Irvyn himself is walking into the animal tent like he never left. He brushes off everyone looking for an explanation and doesn’t seem to give Clint any more attention than anyone else.

Clint is relieved. With the extra set of hands, their work is done in no time and he’s able to bolt off to his bow and targets.

He’s just starting to warm-up when footsteps sound behind him. They’re soft and hesitant. Coulson.

“Clint,” he says.

“I saw you with Irvyn.” He lets an arrow fly, watching it bury right in the center of the bull’s-eye. “Thanks for bringing him back. Do you know what made Boss change his mind?”

Coulson chuckles, resting a warm hand against Clint’s back. “Good job.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clint lets his arms down, just barely keeping himself from dropping his bow. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Secret’s safe with me.” Coulson takes the bow from him with gentle hands. Then he turns toward the targets and snatches an arrow.

Clint doesn’t know what to say as he watches. It’s weird seeing the bow in someone else’s hands. Trick Shot handled it while he was still learning, but that was a long time ago. He’s never wanted to see anyone else shoot it like he does right now.

Coulson notches the arrow and draws back the bow string. His movements are a little shaky, but it’s obvious that this isn’t his first time handling a bow. He takes aim and lets it fly.

It hits one of the outer rings. Coulson chuckles and shakes his head.

Clint can’t help himself. He hands over another arrow and steps up closer as Coulson draws the bow again.

“Bring your arm down. No, not that much. Now in a little. Oh my God…” Coulson’s smiling as Clint places his hand on his arm, guiding it into position and then nudges his stance wider with his foot.

“If you wanted to touch me all you had to do was ask,” Coulson teases, his body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Focus on the target,” Clint says in way of reply, but he can’t stop himself from smiling. “The trailer blocks most of the wind, so don’t worry about that too much. Just aim.”

Clint draws his touch back from Coulson’s arm so he doesn’t interfere, but leaves the one resting on his waist. The arrow flies, hitting just barely outside of the red circle in the middle.

“When did you learn to shoot?” Clint asks as he accepts the bow back and buries an arrow in the middle without a second thought.

“High school,” Coulson answers easily. “I was a fair shot, but nothing like you.”

Clint lets another arrow fly, watching it thud right next to the first. “Not the Army?”

“I’m pretty sure the military favors guns and that was a joke wasn’t it.” Coulson grins, nudging him just as he’s making his next shot. The arrow hits its target anyway.

“Barney joined the Army.” Clint doesn’t know why he’s saying it. “He stayed here with me for six months, until he was old enough to join.”

“Your brother?” Clint nods in clarification and shoots an arrow. “Do you talk to him much?”

“Haven’t spoken to him since the day he left. We don’t exactly have cell phones or an address to write to.” Clint shoots arrows in rapid-fire fashion until he runs out and has to stop. Once he has, he’s afraid to look at Coulson.

“Clint.”

Clint looks, expecting pity and finding something else entirely. “I could have gone with him. He made his choice and I made mine.”

Coulson tugs the bow out of his hands and sets it gently on the ground. Then he gathers Clint into the first real hug he’s had in years.

Clint chuckles at the layer of dust that comes off on Coulson’s coat when he draws back again and starts to brush it off. “This is why you shouldn’t hug me while I’m practicing.”

“How about this then?” and Clint’s hands are crushed between them as Coulson leans down for a kiss.

It’s soft and sweet and lingering and Clint has never been more aware of the fact that anyone could walk around the trailer and see him here.

He breaks away. “I can’t…” he says and the look of disappointment in Coulson’s eyes sends a wave of panic crashing over him. “I can’t _here._ Come on, I know somewhere we can go.”

They could go to his compartment in the trailer, where no one would be during the day. They could go off into the copse of trees bordering the open field they’re camped out on. They could even go to Coulson’s car, parked away from everything else.

But Clint knows exactly where he wants to take Coulson, as long as he doesn’t think about it too much. It only takes him a few seconds to clamber to the top of the trailer and balance his weight at the top so he can see down to Coulson.

“I thought I saw you up there once,” Coulson says, wonder in his voice rather than accusation.

“Come on up,” Clint calls down.

The trip up takes him a few minutes, but finally Clint is reaching over the edge and helping pull up the other man.

“So this is where you hide out,” Coulson says, sitting down and stretching out his legs. His pants are probably getting filthy.

“I’ve never brought anyone else up here,” Clint blurts out as he sits down next to him, marveling for a second at Coulson’s tendency to draw things out of him that he has no intention of saying out loud.

“In that case, I’m honored.” Coulson rests a hand on his arm and Clint leans over to continue where they’d left off on the ground.

It’s rough and sloppy and a little bit desperate, but Coulson guides him with gentle touches and flicks of his tongue against Clint’s bottom lip.

When Clint pulls away to breathe, Coulson says, “How long have you been coming up here?”

Clint shrugs, because he honestly can’t remember. He knows it was sometime after Trick Shot but nothing more specific. “A long time. I usually come up here after performances, before clean up.”

“It’s quiet. No one can bother you.” Coulson stretches out on his back and stares up at the clouds above them. Clint stays sitting, if only because he doesn’t want to let go of the view next to him.

“That’s the goal.” Clint draws a circle in the dust, feeling the grittiness under his skin.

“But that’s not all, is it?” Coulson is looking at him through narrowed eyes, but it’s not a threat. He looks like he’s reading a particularly fantastic book. “You like being up here above everything. Where you can look down on everyone but it’s much harder for them to notice you. In war, it would make you a good sniper.”

Clint’s breath freezes in his lungs. “And in life?”

“It makes you a good observer.” Coulson smiles up at him, his eyes daring him to discredit the assessment. “Makes you see things that other people would miss, like those guys who came to visit Boss. Like the idea that threatening to tell everyone about the debts would be the only thing to bring back Irvyn.”

“How’d you know?” Clint asks, his eyes wide.

Coulson chuckles, pushing himself back into a sitting position. Dusty brown covers his coat. “I didn’t. But I think you just told me.”

Clint scowls at him and then accepts a kiss. They don’t talk much for a while after that.

The sun is shining directly down on them by the time Coulson finally pulls away. “I should probably get back to work and you should probably practice,” he says.

Clint opens his eyes with a disappointed smile. “But you can see everything from up here.”

Coulson kisses him quickly and pushes back toward the steps down. “Go practice.”

Clint stays on top of the trailer, stretched out on his back and waiting for the flush to fade. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever concentrate on shooting, but eventually he does climb down to practice. It’s all muscle memory, he doesn’t even have to focus on the targets.

He’s about to let off another shot when Clint hears footsteps behind him and turns to look while releasing the arrow. It still hits the mark.

“Show off,” Coulson says with a teasing grin. “You should put that in your show. People would love it.”

Clint shrugs. He’s always liked the idea of having a few tricks up his sleeve, things that only he knows that he can do. Coulson pulls him in for a kiss, so brief it’s barely a touch, and then continues along on his circuit.

It isn’t long before they settle into a routine for the rest of the afternoon. Clint shoots. Coulson walks. When their paths cross again, they kiss.

Clint feels disappointed when he has to stow away his bow and arrows in favor of dinner and Coulson has to take up his post in front of the big top.

The performance that night goes flawlessly and some people even stand up and cheer when Clint bows. He only has eyes for Coulson, standing in the shadows clapping. Clint blows a kiss to the crowd, but winks at Coulson instead.

Clint sticks around after he pushes out of the curtains, even though Coulson is probably back to keeping an eye on things outside. He peeks through in the shadows during the equestrians’ performance. Irvyn puts on a dazzling performance and seems to be none the worse for wear.

Cleaning up takes forever and once it’s done there’s nothing left but to fall into bed.

***

Clint’s not quite sure how it happens, but he finds himself on top of the trailer with Coulson the next day. And the next. And the next until it’s almost a routine for him to climb up for a while between rounds.

Sometimes Clint practices his shots from the ground while he waits and sometimes he does it from the trailer. And sometimes he just lies on his back and watches the clouds pass overhead.

Monday morning dawns bright and early to another move. Clint crams himself into a tiny car with Miren, Irvyn, Brandi, and a man he doesn’t know.

“So what’s up with you?” Miren asks, nudging Clint in the ribs with her elbow. They’re in the middle of a long stretch of woods, the only variation the glint of a lake in between the trees.

“What do you mean?” Clint’s heart taps against his ribs as he raises an eyebrow at her.

“You look so…” She sticks the tip of her tongue out as she tries to think of the right word. “Happy.”

“Am I not allowed to look happy?”

“No, no.” Miren shakes her head and accidentally hits Irvyn in the face with her hair. “Sorry, Irvyn. It’s just different. You’re not usually one to go around smiling all the time and…”

Clint forces the smile he’s been wearing for the past few days off his face. He just can’t help it. He hasn’t really had a reason to smile since Barney left. “Nothing’s happened.”

Miren shrugs. “Well, whatever it is, I’m glad for you.”

Brandi glances back at them from her place in the passenger seat and Clint turns back to the window. He always figured Miren would confront him eventually but he’d hoped she’d be a little more private about it. The last thing he needs is something to get around. Rumors have a tendency to spread through the circus like wildfire.

A few hours of daydreaming later, the caravan is pulling into a little county fairground somewhere outside St. Louis.

Clint’s in the middle of filling up water buckets for the horses when it hits him that he hasn’t seen Coulson all day. He glances over his shoulder, searching for a glimpse of bright red amid all the dusty brown but there’s nothing.

He’s just finishing up the last of the buckets when the man himself appears from around the corner.

“Meet me at Lola after dark,” Coulson murmurs, resting a hand on top of Clint’s.

The tap squeaks as he twists it off. “Lola?”

“Sorry, my car.” He smiles as he shakes his head.

“You named your car Lola?” Clint grins up at him like that’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard.

“Shut up.” Coulson pushes his shoulder lightly, just enough that a bit of the water sloshes over and soaks Clint’s jeans at the knees. “Meet me there or not?”

“Yeah.” Clint grins. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

The rest of the hours before dark drag on forever, but at least there’s plenty of work to distract him. The circus has arrived too late to give a performance, so everyone has the night off once things are set up.

“Hey, Clint.” He runs into Miren on the way to his trailer to change clothes. She’s wandering around with a few other equestrians and holding a bottle that looks suspiciously like wine with the label removed. “You want to join us?”

“No thanks.” Clint rolls his eyes at her waving the bottle at him. “I think I’m going to crash.”

“Buzzkill.” Miren waves at the others and the group of them wander off to find somewhere to enjoy their contraband in peace.

Clint shakes his head and continues on his way. He has no idea what Coulson has planned for tonight, but he knows that he’s definitely looking forward to it.


	7. Chapter 7

Lola is parked well away from the performers’ trailers, hidden on the other side of an unused pavilion. The stars twinkle above Clint. All the way out here there isn’t any light pollution to obscure them. Clint feels uncomfortable in a pair of slacks that he never wears and the nicest shirt that he could find. He’d wanted to impress Coulson, but he’s pretty sure he looks like a little kid dressed up in daddy’s clothing.

None of that matters when Coulson grins at him from the front seat as he comes around the corner. Clint grins back and hops easily over the door and into the passenger’s side.

“What did you have in mind?” Clint asks, raising an eyebrow as he glances around the inside of the car. There doesn’t seem to be anything here and the keys aren’t in the ignition. Coulson’s dressed simply: white shirt and jeans.

“Not leaving the fairgrounds if that’s what you’re worried about,” Coulson replies. “Now close your eyes.”

Clint hesitates and then obeys. There’s a shifting and rustling noise followed by something rattling. Then Clint feels a large weight in his lap, though disappointingly not human. He opens his eyes.

It’s a picnic basket. A real, wicker picnic basket. Clint opens the top to find a stack of sandwiches, a couple cartons of blueberries, and a bag of chips. “A picnic?”

“Knew I couldn’t get anything past you,” Coulson deadpans as he reaches over the console and into the basket for a sandwich. “There’s mostly chicken but I think there are a couple ham in there too.”

“Either is fine.” Clint grabs the first one he touches and unwraps it to take a bite. It’s perfect and he hums in appreciation.

The conversation flows surprisingly easily. Coulson tells him about what little he’s seen of St. Louis—not too different from most cities, though everyone seems to be out enjoying the sun—and Clint tells him about how Irvyn’s settling back in under the guise that Coulson was the one to bring him back.

When Clint finishes up the story of Irvyn’s arrival to the circus in the first place, there’s a heavy silence in the space where he should probably offer something about his own reasons of joining. He waits for the inevitable questions, but Coulson stays silent, brushing chip crumbs off the front of his shirt.

“Boss let me and Barney join because these two guys offered to train us,” Clint says, letting the words trickle out of him. “The Swordsman and Trick Shot, everyone called them. Barney struggled to get the hang of anything, but I’m not sure he ever really wanted to. He joined the Army before he could have the chance to perform.”

Coulson still has crumbs on him but he stops anyway, looking at Clint with an intense but soft expression. He nods for him to go on.

“I’d only been here a few months when the Swordsman got busted from stealing money from Boss. I caught him and he almost killed me for it. Trick Shot saved me.”

“Was the Swordsman caught?” Coulson picks up the now empty picnic basket and slips it behind the seats in the back.

“Yeah, they got him.” Clint brushes crumbs off his own shirt. “He’s never getting out of prison. Trick Shot continued to train me after that, and it wasn’t long before I was performing in his act too. He didn’t have much time for mistakes.” He shudders in memory before he can stop himself.

“What happened to him?” Coulson reaches across the console and rests his hand on Clint’s wrist. The same one Trick Shot had shattered the time Clint had accidentally broken one of the practice bows.

“He’s gone now,” Clint says with more fire in his voice than he intends.

Coulson pauses and then asks, “Dead?”

Clint jumps at the suggestion, wonders if Coulson might be entertaining the thought that he’d killed him. As if he could have killed Trick Shot if he tried. “No, not dead. It was a training accident. He was trying to see if he could shoot from a trapeze. He’s paralyzed from the waist down.”

Coulson relaxes and strokes his fingertips over the back of Clint’s hand. “Do you miss him?”

Clint snorts. “Not at all.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, the crickets providing background noise to keep it from being too uncomfortable. A shout echoes from across the fairgrounds, too far away to be understood but loud enough to remind Clint that they’re not as alone as he feels.

He thinks about saying, _Thanks for dinner_ but it just doesn’t sound significant enough. If they were anywhere else he could return the favor, take Coulson out somewhere for a real dinner and not just bring him a barely-hot-enough hot dog from a circus vendor.

Then Coulson looks at him and he can’t help himself. He clambers over the console, only tripping slightly when his foot gets caught on the other side.

Coulson laughs and helps him over, steadying Clint with his hands on either side of his waist and budging up enough that he can balance over his lap.

They both lean in for a kiss at the same time and laugh as they bump noses. Clint holds still as Coulson presses up for a kiss.

Relative silence falls over the fairgrounds as everyone starts to settle down for the night. That combined with the blanket of darkness surrounding them makes Clint feel like they really are alone, that maybe they’re parked along the roadside somewhere because they couldn’t wait to get home.

The kiss is equally desperate. Coulson wraps a hand around the back of his neck, holding him in place while Clint draws his teeth over his bottom lip. Coulson nips back, just a little bit harder, and then uses his tongue to soothe the sting.

Clint balances himself against Coulson’s shoulders and then runs his hands down over his chest, feeling the hard muscles hidden beneath the shirt.

Clint's jeans feel so tight it's almost painful and he lifts himself up in an attempt to hide the evidence from Coulson. Coulson digs his fingers into Clint's hips and drags him back down, bucking his own hips up at the same time.

Clint lets out a desperate gasp and pulls away from the kiss, trying to get oxygen into his lungs. He isn't quite sure what's supposed to happen now but he knows that he wants Coulson more than he's ever wanted anyone.

It doesn’t matter that there’s only an empty pavilion between them and the rest of the circus. It doesn't matter that they're in Coulson's car. It doesn't matter that Coulson is the first person he's ever really kissed.

Coulson nips down his throat and mouths at the collar of his shirt. "Backseat," he says, voice rough. It almost sounds like an order. Clint rushes to obey, trying not to scuff up Lola’s interior too much as he climbs over the seat and sits in the back. Coulson hops over with ease. Clint tries not to wonder if he’s done this with a lot of people.

Coulson doesn't give him much time to wonder, however, before he's being pressed back against the seat and kissed so thoroughly he doesn't really have time to think about anything.

Then Coulson's grabbing Clint by the hips and using the advantage of a roomier backseat to stretch him out and straddle over him.

"Are you okay?" Coulson whispers, pausing for a moment to rest a hand against Clint's chest.

"Fine." Clint pants as he tries to catch his breath. He wonders if Coulson can feel his heart beating against his palm, even through his thick shirt. "Why are we stopping?"

Coulson grins and Clint can feel it against his mouth as they kiss again. They only break apart so Clint can sit up and pull his shirt off over his head. It’s tossed unceremoniously somewhere in the front seat. The contrast between the cool night air and the heat of Coulson’s hands raise goosebumps up his back and arms.

"Cold?" Coulson asks, rubbing Clint's arms up and down and only making the goosebumps worse.

Clint laughs and leans up to kiss him in answer, fingers fumbling to undo the buttons down Coulson's shirt. It seems like forever before he finally manages to get them all and push the shirt back and off.

Coulson leans down, pulling him lower in the seat so he's stretched out on his back. Clint tilts his head up for a kiss and lets out a soft moan when Coulson's bare chest presses up against his own.

If he felt cold before, Clint might as well be on fire now. Heat races up and down his chest, making it hard to remember why they don't do this all the time. This is the best idea anyone's ever had.

Clint wants to kiss Coulson like this every day, not just whenever they can sneak away and hide out in the back of Coulson's car. He wants to be the boyfriend that Coulson can be proud of.

The thought sends a shockwave through him. Boyfriend. Is that what they are? Or is Coulson only using him for as long as he's working for the circus? Would he abandon Clint when the job is done, just like everyone else has?

Clint forgets how to breathe for a second and yanks away from the kiss. Coulson leans down to lick at his throat but pulls away when he realizes that Clint is no longer responding. He sits back in the seat and pulls him up gently by the shoulders.

Clint lets him, staying as unmoving as a ragdoll.

"What's going on?" Coulson asks, moving Clint gently until he's turned around and can lean back against Coulson's chest. "Are you okay?"

Clint shakes his head, trying to figure out how to put his thoughts into words. He doesn't want Coulson to think he's overly clingy. Doesn't think he can bear hearing the words if Coulson tells him that what they're doing is just having some fun.

He's heard talk like that among the other performers. Lots of drama and scandal when the news breaks, and it always does. People getting together and cheating on each other and breaking up. Having a limited number of people confined together in a space as small as theirs means that sometimes people pair up to blow off some steam.

Clint knows that. He's seen it, but he's never wanted that for himself.

"What are we doing?" Clint asks, his voice low and quiet.

Coulson nudges him out of his lap and for a second Clint thinks that he’s about to ask him to leave. Instead he just reaches under the seat and brings out a blanket, draping it over both of them.

“I like you,” Coulson says, his voice still a little deeper than normal. He rests his arms lightly around Clint’s waist, not trapping him but holding him.

Clint doesn’t even have to stop a think before he answers, “I like you too.”

“So you like me and I like you.” Coulson punctuates it with a kiss at the base of his neck. “And we just ate dinner together and now we’re kissing in the backseat. I think we might be dating.”

“Might be?” Clint hates how insecure he’s sure that he sounds, but he needs to hear the words. Needs to know this isn’t just a casual thing.

“Do you want to be?” Coulson tightens his grip around his waist, just a little.

“Yes,” Clint breathes and then twists around so that he’s straddling Coulson again. Just like that they’re picking up where they left off, though much gentler. The blanket slips to the floor, unnoticed.

Clint looks down, marveling at the smooth muscles making up Coulson’s chest and the way they twitch a little as he runs his hands down them. There’s a scar cutting across his shoulder, thin and probably pink. He can feel the change in the skin when he touches it.

Coulson looks at him in turn, taking in the lithe archers’ build and the slight jut of Clint’s ribs from not enough food and too much work.

"You're allowed to touch, you know," Clint murmurs, sliding closer in his lap. His jeans tighten at the movement and he winces.

Coulson chuckles. "Would you like some help with that?"

Clint whimpers, bucking forward at the suggestion and accidentally grinding against Coulson. Clint braces against him, balancing his weight with his hands on the back of the seat while Coulson reaches between them and unbuttons his jeans.

The sound of the zipper seems uncommonly loud in the silence, the only other sounds that of their breathing.

Clint drops his head onto Coulson's shoulder when he wraps a hand around his cock and pulls it out. “How do you like it?” Coulson growls into his ear while he strokes lazily.

Clint, panting too hard to answer, reaches down to wrap his hand around Coulson’s and guide him into faster and harder strokes. He bites down on Coulson’s shoulder to hold in an embarrassing whine.

Clint’s hands reach down and undo Coulson’s belt, trying to reciprocate. Coulson’s length is hot and hard beneath his hand as he pulls it out. He twitches as Clint takes the first stroke.

Just when Clint doesn’t think he can take any more, Coulson wraps his hands around his hips and pulls him flush against his lap, wrapping a hand around both of them. Clint kisses him hard, licking over the roof of Coulson’s mouth.

Coulson pulls away, head thumping against the back of the seat. “You’re so beautiful,” he says.

Clint shudders as he comes, his head landing on Coulson’s shoulder. He feels the other man’s hand stroke twice more before Coulson comes with a soft moan. For a few minutes they don’t move, just holding each other and catching their breath. Then Clint flops into the open seat.

Coulson takes a deep breath and then leans over into the front seat, opening the glove compartment and returning with packages of tissues and of wet wipes. Clint laughs as he pulls a few out and starts to clean up the backseat.

“Always prepared, aren’t you?” Clint teases as he tries to wipe up his own pants. There’s only so much that can be done at this point.

“Scout’s honor.” Coulson grins back at him and leans over for a kiss. His pants are still wet and his hair is everywhere, but he still manages to make it work.

Clint glances off in the direction of the performers’ trailers, remembering the apartment in his dream. “I should probably be getting in.”

“Hmm.” Coulson nuzzles at his neck. “I should probably be securing things.”

Clint pushes himself upright and hops out of the back of the car. His knees wobble as he lands on his feet. Coulson tosses him his shirt and then follows a little more gracefully.

“I’ll walk you home,” he says and Clint doesn’t protest, especially when Coulson slings an arm over his shoulders and tugs him in close. It’s a cool night, a stiff breeze kicking up out of the north. The silence is interrupted only by the sharp whinny of a horse and a slam of a trailer door somewhere.

Coulson whirls him around and presses his back against the outside of the trailer, kissing him thoroughly right next to the door. Clint knows that someone could walk out any minute—the equestrians especially like to check on their charges in the middle of the night when they’ve moved into a new place—but he can’t bring himself to care with the way Coulson’s tongue is stroking his own. It’s a few minutes before Coulson finally releases him and Clint’s able to open his eyes.

“You go on,” Coulson says, nudging him to the door. “I’ll be out here keeping watch.”

Clint stands up on his toes to kiss his forehead. “Get some sleep too.” They kiss one more time before Clint disappears into his trailer. It’s filled with soft breathing punctuated by someone snoring. He navigates through the darkness with practiced ease and changes his pants, tossing the ruined ones aside, before falling into bed.

Clint reaches for the cold of his knife, wishing that it was Coulson’s warmth cuddled up in the bed next to him. The picnic in Lola had been wonderful, but he wanted more. He wanted to go out to a proper archery range and teach Coulson how to shoot. He wanted to go out to a real dinner, at a real restaurant, with real food. He wanted to be able to kiss Coulson against a wall and then take him home.

It was something they’d never be able to have here. Boss would inevitably find out, and then one or both of them would be out on the street. Clint lets out a rough sigh. Not even when Barney left for the Army had he longed for a life out of the circus so strongly.


	8. Chapter 8

When Clint opens his eyes in the morning, it’s to Miren’s peering face. He smothers a shout of surprise as he pushes himself back. “What the hell?” he asks.

“Where were you last night?” Miren answers without bothering to apologize or look sorry for startling him. She plops down on the edge of his mattress, pulling bites off a muffin and tossing them into her mouth.

“I was out.” Clint pushes the covers aside and crawls over to his suitcase, hoping she’ll take that as a hint to leave.

She doesn’t. “There isn’t anyone else in here. You can tell me.”

“I don’t want to tell you.” Clint pulls a loose T-shirt and shorts out of his suitcase and turns around to glare at her. In a place where there isn’t any privacy, it feels nice to have something that’s solely his own.

“Was it Coulson?” Miren tilts her head, watching him with wide eyes and a smirk. “You were with Coulson, weren’t you?”

Clint falls backward onto his mattress with a groan. “Fine. Yes, I was with Coulson. We ate dinner in his car and then we got off in his backseat. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Well the dirty details might help…” She winks at him and Clint throws his pillow at her head.

“Get out,” he growls.

Miren bolts laughing from his space and then peeks around the corner to say, “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” She squeaks and runs when Clint throws another pillow at her.

It’s a few minutes before Clint manages to convince himself to get out of bed and into his clothes. Coulson probably won’t show up for another hour or two, but he figures he can at least get some practice time in before then.

The long stretch of travel and a day off from performing means it takes some time to get back into the groove of things. Not that Clint misses a shot or anything; his muscles just feel a bit off for the first half hour.

Coulson comes around about an hour later and steals the bow in exchange for a kiss. Clint leans back against the trailer and watches him let off a few shots. Coulson rolls up his sleeves to do it, exposing the smooth stretch and release of his muscles to Clint’s watching gaze.

He wonders if this is what Coulson sees, every night when he performs.

“Anyone ever tell you how hot you look when you shoot?” Clint asks, unable to risk walking over and wrapping his arms around Coulson’s waist as soon as he’s let off the last shot. It hits just on the outer rim of the bull’s-eye.

Coulson makes a groan low in his throat as he turns around. “Not near so hot as you are. No wonder your act is so popular.” He leans down, running his lips up Clint’s throat.

“And here I thought it was just because I hit the targets every time.” He snatches the bow up and goes to collect the arrows for another round. Coulson helps and then, with one last kiss, returns to his round.

Clint feels on top of the world after that and the feeling carries him through the next few days. His performances get better and more daring. Nothing like shooting a hat off Miren’s head, but things he knows that he can do and hadn’t shown anyone before.

Like shooting from either hand, something he hasn’t done since Trick Shot left.

Coulson watches every performance and catches him out back of the tent before clean-up. Just long enough for a kiss and a reminder of how amazing the performance was. Clint’s never heard praise like that and he soaks it up.

The feeling carries him through the trip from St. Louis to Nashville, keeping him from being crushed by wishes that he’s riding with Coulson the entire time.

They’ve been in Nashville all of two hours when Coulson catches him outside of the trailer hauling feed for the animals, unloading hay bales.

“Someone told me that it’s your birthday,” he says, sitting on the bale that Clint was just about to pick up.

Clint shrugs. He barely notices his birthday anymore, since there isn’t anyone else around to celebrate it with him. Miren would probably do something for it but he doesn’t want to bother her. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Hey.” Coulson grabs a hold of his shirt and pulls him down onto the bale too. “You only get to turn eighteen once. You need to do something.”

Clint waves a hand at the circus around them. “There isn’t really anything to do. It’s just another day to me. Not a big deal, really.”

Coulson shakes his head. “Meet me at the car tonight.”

“You really don’t have to do anything.”

Coulson glances quickly around them and then brushes his lips over Clint’s. “I know I don’t. I want to.”

“Okay.” Clint can’t stop the start of a smile showing on his face. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Coulson leaves as quickly as he showed up, leaving Clint to finish unloading the hay bales alone and a little bit confused. After the bales of hay, there are blocks of shavings to be unloaded next. Thankfully Irvyn gives him a hand on that one, because the blocks are large, unwieldy, and very heavy.

The open field they’re camped out in is only a half-mile’s hike from a rather nice campground, so the sharpshooters get together and hike down for a shower. Miren pulls Clint along, a mischievous smile on her face that makes him a little uneasy.

“You need to be clean for tonight,” she says when he asks about it, but won’t say anything more. For someone who never stops talking, Miren’s silence is more than a little unnerving.

Clint does have to admit that the campground showers are much nicer than the ones that they set up for performers and so it’s worth it anyway. The layers of dust and filth wash away down the drain and his hair feels so much softer that he almost wants to go back and beg Coulson to run his fingers through it.

The rest of the evening goes by slowly, until Clint’s ready to go off at any second if the sun doesn’t go down soon. Finally he goes to get changed into nicer clothes and sneaks around the backside of the circus to Coulson.

Lola’s parked so far out and hidden so well in the darkness that Coulson has to flash the headlights in order for Clint to find him.

“I guess I’m not as good a marksman at night,” Clint says as he slides into the passenger seat. The car is already running, engine making a steady rumble.

“Nonsense.” Coulson smirks at him as he drives over to the road and onto it, only flipping on the headlights once the circus is behind them. There isn’t anyone out on this stretch of road anyway.

“Where are we going?” Clint asks, glancing over his shoulder at the pinpricks of light. He doesn’t bother to point out that with both of them gone, there isn’t anyone left behind to cover for them.

“It’s a surprise.” Coulson winks. “That’s what birthdays usually entail anyway. But if you want a preview, look in the glove compartment.”

Clint reaches forward hesitantly and pulls it open. Inside, on top of the maps and paperwork and a tattered pair of gloves are what look like a new bottle of lube and box of condoms. He shivers in his seat and closes it again, resisting the urge to insist that they pull over right now, surprise be damned.

It isn’t long before a small town casts a glow against the sky and even less time before they’re driving down the streets. It’s quiet at this time of night, but there are still people out and about. Coulson parks on the street in front of a small diner.

“I think it’s about time we had a real dinner, don’t you?” Coulson asks as he hurries around to open Clint’s door before he can do it himself.

The diner is a little place, stuffed with round tables and perfect lighting. The inside is decorated with a western theme: leather bridles and metal bits and horseshoes and lariats everywhere. The food smells amazing, though, so Clint decides not to question it as he follows Coulson over to a little table for two in the corner.

They order hamburgers and sodas from a waitress in jeans and a plaid shirt. Her blonde hair is twisted back into a braid so long that Clint wonders if Boss would try to recruit her.

“How’d you know about this place?” Clint asks once she’s taken their menus and he has a chance to really look around. There’s a portrait of a cowboy riding a bull right behind them.

“I have my ways.” Coulson grins at him with an eyebrow raised. “A friend told me about it. When you travel a lot, you tend to make connections.”

Clint doesn’t point out that he’s traveled across the country and back at least twice and yet he doesn’t have any connections outside of the circus. Listening to Coulson talk makes him wish that he did. That he had people that he could call up and ask for restaurant recommendations just because he’s in town. “Have you ever been here?”

“Not until now.” Coulson sits back in his chair, stretching out his legs until his calf rests against Clint’s.

They speak easily after that. The topic inevitably turns to Clint’s birthday and he admits that it has never been a very special occasion to him before. When he was a kid he had the typical birthday parties with cake and presents and friends. Barney tried to keep it up but there was never the money. And once Clint was alone at the circus, he didn’t really care anymore. If Coulson notices that all of his birthday stories seem to center around more than eight years ago, he doesn’t comment on it.

The hamburgers are delicious. Clint eats his in slow bites, wanting to savor every single one of them.

Coulson tells him about his eighteenth birthday, when he spent the morning in the Secretary of State office registering to vote and the afternoon enlisting in the Army. “The recruiter bought me a cupcake,” he says. “Told me most people wait until _after_ their birthday to come in.”

“Why didn’t you?” Clint asks, sitting back in his chair and lazily eating the rest of his french fries.

Coulson shrugs. “I’d known for two years that I wanted to enlist and I didn’t see a point in waiting any longer.”

“What’s it like, having your life planned out like that?” Clint can’t help but ask, thinking of all the mornings he’s woken up unable to so much as remember what city he’s in.

Coulson laughs. “It’s great until one morning you wake up and you realize that all of your plans have run out. That’s how I ended up here.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” Coulson grins back at him and then pushes over the little dessert menu. “Get whatever you want.”

Clint orders the biggest piece of chocolate cake topped with ice cream and more chocolate syrup, just because he can. The sight of it alone is enough to make him feel like he’s going to go into a sugar coma. Coulson helps him eat it and the sight of him licking chocolate syrup off the corner of his mouth makes Clint want to go back to the car immediately.

He holds still until they’ve finished scraping up the last bits of chocolate cake and Coulson has paid the bill.

Outside, Coulson whirls around and backs him up against the side of the car. The kiss is hard and desperate and tastes like chocolate.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice you watching me,” Coulson murmurs into his ear after he pulls away.

Clint shivers and climbs into the car once he’s released. Coulson hurries over to the driver’s seat and they’re back on the road before Clint even has time to think. The town flashes by, giving way to long stretches of woods again.

Coulson takes a turn onto a dirt road, driving like he knows exactly where they’re going. There isn’t anything out here except for the occasional pinprick of light in the distance where a house hides.

Coulson pulls the car over to the side of the road, shuts it off, and turns to grin at Clint. Before Clint can think about it, he’s trying to crawl over the console without even taking the time to unbuckle the seatbelt. Coulson chuckles and helps him untangle, grabbing Clint by the shoulders and yanking him across.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t take you somewhere better,” Coulson says before he nudges Clint to climb into the backseat.

Clint tumbles over without managing to fall on his face and twists around to sit. He offers a hand up to Coulson as he climbs back. “Still better than my place.”

Coulson doesn’t laugh, just leans over into a kiss. His hand around the back of Clint’s neck is almost tentative and Clint feels like he’s going to just melt into the seat.

It takes Clint a few seconds to open his eyes when Coulson moves away. He’s bent over the seat, struggling to reach down to the glove compartment. Finally, after some wiggling and sounds that Clint wants to hear him make again, Coulson returns with the lube and condoms in hand.

Coulson sets it all aside and kisses him, deftly unbuttoning Clint’s shirt and pushing it off. Clint doesn’t even realize Coulson is doing the same to himself until their bare chests are pressed together. Coulson’s skin feels searing hot and Clint pulls away with a gasp. Coulson bites his way down his throat, hard enough to sting but not enough to leave marks.

Clint lets Coulson guide him down onto his back across the seats. His pants are the next to go, quickly followed by his boxers. Clint keeps his eyes fixed on the stars, afraid of what he might see on Coulson’s face, but stares when Coulson lets out a soft groan.

It’s hard for him to look away when he feels Coulson rolling the condom over him. It’s impossible when Coulson dips his head down and takes Clint into his mouth.

Clint's hands scramble for purchase against the smooth seats, struggling to give himself something to hold on to so that he doesn't buck up into Coulson's mouth. Coulson rests a hand against his hips, not hard enough to hold him down.

Coulson takes him down in one smooth movement and Clint knows he's not going to last long like this. He's not sure he cares when Coulson presses his tongue against him in just the right spot.

It's heaven. Clint doesn't know what he did to deserve this, but he wants to do it every day.

Coulson reaches up for one of his hands and brings it down to grab his hair. He lets Clint control the pace for a minute, soft and slow because he never wants this moment to end but he's already so hard it hurts.

Clint can’t stop himself from thrusting forward when he feels a finger, slick and a little bit cold, between his legs. Coulson slides it in just as he sucks down and Clint doesn’t know whether to push down or thrust forward. He settles for flopping against the seats, arching his back as “Please” slips out between his lips.

Coulson sucks lightly at the head just as he crooks his finger and hits _something_ and Clint’s world is disappearing in a burst of white. “Phil,” he gasps.

By the time Clint comes to, the condom is gone and Coulson is kissing his way up his thigh.

“Fuck me,” Clint says, because he doesn’t know when he’ll get the chance to say it again. Because he wants it like he’s never wanted anything in his life.

“Not tonight,” Coulson murmurs as he flicks his tongue against the point of Clint’s hip. His hair is sticking up everywhere and it just makes Clint want to work his hands through it more.

“Soon?” Clint tries not to whimper as he leans up to meet Coulson in a kiss.

“Lexington. That’s where we’re going next. I’ll get us a hotel room, if that’s okay with you.”

Clint murmurs his approval without breaking the kiss. He reaches down to Coulson’s pants to return the favor, but Coulson brushes him away. “Don’t worry about me,” Coulson says, and then he blushes and looks away.

Clint kisses him in a rush. They tangle up together, skin on skin, until the temperature drops and a cold breeze kicks up. Clint moves slowly as he helps track down their clothes and pulls on his own. He wishes they could stay out here beneath the stars all night.

“Lakecrest Circle,” Coulson says as he twists the key in the ignition. “I can’t remember the name of the hotel exactly but that’s the road it’s on.”

Clint nods, repeating the name over and over in his head to make sure he doesn’t forget. The drive back passes all too quickly and it isn’t long before the two of them are rolling back over the field.

A feeling that something is wrong crawls down Clint’s spine, shattering the peace. He can hear people moving around and shouting. It’s well after midnight and everyone should be asleep.

Clint’s out of the car before Coulson even stops completely and running for the stables. Miren’s there, huddled outside one of the stalls. The bay horse behind her reaches over the bars to nuzzle at her shoulder.

“What’s going on?” Clint asks, kneeling down next to her. He doesn’t look up as Coulson jogs up behind them.

Miren looks up slowly. She’s not crying but her eyes look confused and glassy. “Boss was attacked. He’s in the hospital and he’s blaming us.”


	9. Chapter 9

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. Clint doesn’t get any sleep and neither does anyone else. Even if there was time, there’s far too much noise. Coulson disappears almost immediately, without saying a word, and Clint doesn’t see him anywhere. Lola is gone too, so he can only assume that Coulson has gone to the hospital. There’s so much chaos that it’s hard to be really sure of anything.

Everything else Clint remembers in pieces. First he has to calm Miren down enough to get at least some of the story. “What happened?” Clint asks when she seems able to speak.

“Well I’d just settled the horses down for the night and I was in the trailer.” Her voice shakes a bit and she steadies herself by playing with the forelock of the mare behind her. “Then I heard the shouting. Something about money, I couldn’t really hear anything they were saying.”

“And?” Clint prompts when she pauses.

“Then I heard screaming.” Miren shudders and it’s a few more seconds before she’s able to continue. “I started to come out but someone told me to stay inside. About twenty minutes later I heard the sirens come in and then leave again.”

“Have you heard anything about Boss?” Clint starts to pace restlessly up and down the shed row, wishing that Coulson was here to tell them what to do. Nothing like this has ever happened in the circus before.

Miren shakes her head. “Irvyn told me he didn’t look good, but he couldn’t get a really good look.”

Clint stays for a few more minutes before he says that he’s going to go see about the rest of the performers and heads out of the animal tent. There are people everywhere, all of them trying to get their version of what happened into the open. “Broken ribs and a punctured lung,” an acrobat insists, “that’s what them paramedics said.”

“One of the guys hit him over the head with a bat,” a sharpshooter says around a cigarette, leaning against the trailer. “That’s it. He probably has a concussion. I didn’t see anything else wrong.”

“I saw ‘im when they were putting him in the ambulance,” a particularly distraught girl tells anyone who will listen. “They told him to move his legs and he couldn’t do it. His spine must be broken!”

Without Coulson, Clint doesn’t know where to turn for the facts. No one does. The stories are all too wide and varied for anyone to even compile a list of similarities.

When dawn breaks, Clint is so exhausted that he feels like he could fall over any moment. Sirens wake anyone who managed to fall asleep as two police cars pull through. They arrest two of the sharpshooters and a male acrobat. Clint watches as they wave off anyone who tries to ask what’s going on. He’s too far away to hear, but their body language is pretty clear.

They couldn’t catch the sharks that attacked Boss and so now he’s blaming the performers to save his own skin.

Clint’s body gives out after that and he wakes up around noon just lying in a pile of hay. He can feel the lines where the stalks have imprinted marks across his face.

“Did I miss anything?” he asks Miren, finding her hidden away with the horses. Her expression is, if possible, even darker than the night before. This is normally when she’d be out practicing, but no one knows if they’ll be performing that night. Or ever again.

Miren shakes her head. “Coulson stopped by to let us know that Boss will be fine. He has a couple cracked ribs and possibly a minor concussion. He should be released within the week.”

“Coulson was here?” Clint looks around like he expects the man to step around the corner any second. He can’t believe that he missed him, or that no one took the time to wake him up. “Where is he now?”

Miren fixes her eyes on the ground. “He’s gone. Didn’t say when he would be coming back.”

Clint hears the unspoken _if_ and sits down on the ground hard. Coulson had been there and he hadn’t even bothered to see if he was okay or tell him in person what was going on. Had it really been less than twelve hours ago that they’d been stretched out next to each other in the back of Coulson’s car?

“Everything’s going to be all right, Clint,” Miren says, scratching the top of a mare’s neck with one hand while she rests the other on his shoulder.

“Is it?” Clint asks into his knees. She doesn’t answer that.

The circus is like a ghost town. Word must have spread into town that the performance is canceled because no one shows up. No one is prepared to perform anyway, not with three of their friends arrested, Boss gone, and all of their futures in question.

Clint tries to go out and shoot for a couple hours, just to keep himself occupied, but then he remembers Coulson watching him, Coulson shooting the bow, Coulson kissing him and it’s just all too much.

He climbs to the top of the truck but Coulson’s up there with him too.

So he goes back to the horses and helps Miren with her chores. After dinner, Brandi and another man take one of the trucks and drive into town for news on their arrested friends. They come back three hours later shaking their heads and without a single word.

Clint falls asleep stretched across his mattress and dreams of that apartment with Coulson again.

In the morning, the police officers return with the three—now released—performers and the announcement that Boss is being placed under arrest. They’re all free to go but the circus is no more. As to what changed their minds or the charges against Boss, the officers remain unresponsive to questions.

Some people smile at the news, the idea of freedom appealing after working for so long. Others cry, knowing that they don’t have anywhere else to go. Clint does neither. He falls to his knees as it hits him that he’s once again been left without a home.

And this time he doesn’t even have Barney to watch his back.

“What are you going to do?” he asks Miren once everyone has dispersed. The cops are gone again and the fields are full of people wandering aimlessly or packing up their things.

“Stay until something is figured out for the horses.” Miren strokes their muzzles as she walks down the shed row. “I can’t just leave them here.”

Clint nods, thinking of his bow and wondering if he should take it with him. Unless he’s going to try to survive in the woods and use it to hunt game it’s not like he really needs a bow in the city anyway. It’s just another painful reminder that Coulson still hasn’t come back. “Brandi is heading into Nashville tonight. I think I’m going to go with her.”

Miren throws her arms around him in a hug. “Good luck, Clint.”

“You too.” They don’t say goodbye or that they’ll stay in touch. Just hug until it’s time for Clint to go pack up his things if he wants to catch a ride anywhere.

In the end, Clint takes the knife but leaves the bow.

“…it was Coulson,” Brandi is saying when Clint climbs into the backseat. The car is full to bursting with performers and their belongings. “He told the police about Boss and the loan sharks.”

Clint feels like he’s been hit in the chest. His body curls in on itself, his head resting against the suitcase braced in his lap. He should have known. As far as he knew, Coulson was the only one besides himself that knew for sure that Boss was in deep with some dangerous people. Coulson told the truth and saved them all from being wrongfully accused, but he’d also ruined them all. He’d caused them to all be kicked out on the street without so much as a warning or a goodbye.

Brandi abandons them all on a little side street in what Clint is told is downtown. Clint hefts his suitcase more securely in his arms and just starts walking.

He knows that Nashville is a beautiful, historic city but right now he might as well be in any city in America and he wouldn’t know the difference. He takes refuge behind an empty dumpster in an alley for the night. It smells like rotten meat but at least it’s dry and undisturbed.

It’s not easy, living on the street, but Clint’s had plenty of practice at it. He knows instinctively where to go to find decent food, the places to avoid if he doesn’t want to get mixed up in anything. What he doesn’t know is where to go from here.

If he expects to run into anyone from the circus, Clint is disappointed. Once or twice he thinks he sees Miren inside a store but she disappears as soon as he looks closer. He hears Coulson’s voice across the street but it’s just a Boston man probably in town on business.

A newspaper tells him that Boss has been released and is getting ready to stand trial. The entire circus is under review for things dating back to the days of Trick Shot and the Swordsman. Clint knows that the circus was probably in violation of three dozen laws and regulations, but he can’t really bring himself to care.

Reading the article is almost like reading about someone else’s life.

Coulson isn’t mentioned, not by name at least, and there’s no indication of what happened to him or anyone else.

Clint tears up the page about the circus and uses the rest of the paper to insulate his clothes. It’s getting cold at night.

A week in, a gang of teenage boys decide to see if they can take Clint in a fight. They’re territorial but lack any skill to be a serious threat. He leaves the followers groaning and clutching various aches. The leader gets Clint’s knife held against his throat. They don’t ask his name and he doesn’t ask theirs, but they know where to find good food and it’s nice to have someone else watching his back.

The days blur together but Clint thinks it’s been another week when he finds himself on his own again. One of the boys thought they could force him into stealing some electronics out of a little store once they realize his skill for blending in. Clint leaves him with a knife graze to the thigh that’s going to need some stitches and will be hard to explain.

A “Help Wanted” sign plastered in the window of a restaurant that should probably be investigated by the health department leads to a job washing dishes. It’s not pleasant but it pays money and that’s good enough for him.

Clint finds refuge in an abandoned building. It’s already occupied but the other tenants don’t seem to mind as long as he keeps to himself and doesn’t cause trouble.

A woman with a gun stuck in her belt and a knife strapped to her thigh tells Clint about a shooting range just outside of town. Clint saves up his money until he has enough for a cab ride out. The range is small and he can’t afford a chance to shoot at anything, but it’s enough just being there.

He misses the feel of his bow beneath his hands, the methodic routine of notching an arrow, aiming, and letting it fly. Even the thick smell of gunpowder makes him miss the sharpshooters.

“Can’t stay off range, can you, Hawkeye?” a familiar voice asks him from behind his second time out. Clint whirls around to see Miren skipping up next to him. She looks good, better than ever actually. Her clothes look new and her hair is cut just above her shoulders. She’s also wearing the brightest smile Clint’s ever seen. He wouldn’t recognize her if it wasn’t for her voice and the easy way she uses his stage name.

“I guess not. How’d you find me?” Clint’s powerfully aware that he’s still wearing the clothes he took away from the circus and he can’t afford a shower.

“I have my ways.” She wiggles her eyebrows at him, glancing over his clothes without a hint of disdain. “How’s life treating you?”

“Not as well as you.” He looks her over in return. “Nice haircut.”

“Thanks.” Miren reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ears. She even looks more confident than the last time he saw her. “Everyone’s gone from the circus now. I helped find homes for all the horses. And I’ve got a new job at a stable.”

“That’s great,” Clint says, meaning it. “I’m working at a restaurant.” He tucks his hands into his pockets so that she can’t see his fingernails caked with dirt.

“Not here?” Miren waves a hand at the range in front of them, the long stretch of mown grass between them and the targets.

Clint shakes his head. He’d tried, to see if there were any openings helping teach archery classes or anything, but he hadn’t had any luck.

“Do you miss the circus?” Miren asks, resting a hand on his shoulder.

A question that should be easy but somehow isn’t. Clint lets his head drop against the top rail of the fence. He misses knowing that he can go to the mess and pick up some food, even if it’s not that good. He misses knowing that everyone around him has his back. He misses having a mattress to sleep on and showers to use and the top of the trailer to hide out on. He misses Miren’s laugh and Coulson’s grin. “I miss some things,” he admits.

“Have you talked to Coulson recently?” Miren asks, her voice gentle.

Clint jerks away from her hand and steps back. “Why would I have talked to Coulson?” God, even just saying his _name_ makes his throat burn.

Miren’s eyes widen. “He helped me find homes for the horses. Get my new job. He helped everyone that needed it to find a new position. Showed up the day after you’d left with some black guy with an eye patch.”

Clint’s heart leaps into his mouth. Coulson hadn’t abandoned them all to find new lives on the streets? But why, if he’d helped everyone else, hadn’t he tried to find Clint? “No, I…” He swallows hard. “I haven’t spoken to him since my birthday.”

“Well he’s staying in a hotel in Lexington. I have his number here somewhere…”

Before Clint has a chance to think things over, he kisses Miren on the cheek and bolts for the road. He doesn’t need Coulson’s number, not when he knows exactly where he is. _Lexington. I’ll get us a hotel room. Lakecrest Circle…_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your lovely comments and kudos. I wouldn't be able to do any of this without you. This is indeed the last chapter and I hope you enjoy it. :)

The cab back to Nashville takes the majority of Clint’s savings. Then he packs and unpacks his few remaining belongings no less than three times. What if Coulson isn’t there anymore? What if he doesn’t want to see him? What if he really was just a fling of convenience?

No. He can’t think like that.

Once he decides that he’s _definitely going to go_ there’s the matter of getting from Nashville to Lexington.

There’s nothing to do but start walking. A truck driver with a thick Southern drawl picks him up just outside the city and takes him as far as the border. The only threat he poses is killing Clint with boredom as he spends the entire ride droning about the cattle farm that he wants someday.

Clint hops out at a truck stop and thanks the man before starting to walk again. He’s made it about six miles before an RV picks him up. The woman driving it looks like she could be a body-builder so Clint figures she doesn’t have to worry about anyone trying to attack her. She takes him as far as Elizabethtown and apologizes when she has to leave him at a roadside diner.

A man hauling a horse trailer offers to take him as far as Louisville if he’s willing to ride in the empty trailer. Clint shrugs his shoulders and accepts. He’s not sure he can walk another step anyway.

The trailer is dark, cramped, and smells like manure. He sits at the front on top of an empty box that smells like leather. It’s probably dangerous but he’s not really sure he cares at this point.

From Louisville, the man gives him enough money to take the bus to Lexington. Before Clint can refuse, he’s gone and the bus is already pulling up.

Once he’s standing in Lexington, there’s the matter of finding Lakecrest Circle. A nice couple in a gas station point him in the right direction. Two buses and a four-mile walk later and he’s standing outside what he hopes is Coulson’s hotel.

He can’t really consider the alternatives.

Clint takes a deep breath and walks inside. The receptionist takes a good look at him as he walks across the lobby and, to her credit, still manages a smile. Her nametag reads _Brenda._ “What can I do for you?” she asks.

“I’m looking for Phil Coulson,” Clint says, refusing to allow his voice to shake. His heart is pounding so loud in his ears that he’s a little worried he won’t actually be able to hear her response.

She shakes her head with a soft smile. “I’m sorry, but I can’t divulge…”

“I know.” Clint waves his hand, frustrated with himself. Of course she wouldn’t be able to just tell him where Coulson was staying. He looks like he just rolled out of the desert after being lost for days. “Please…could you just...call his room and ask if he would like to speak to me?”

Something in his face must convince her because she types something into the computer and then picks up the phone. “Your name is?”

“Clint. Clint Barton.” He tries not to lean against the counter to get close enough to the phone to hear.

“Hello, Mr. Coulson. I have a man here at the desk who would like to see you. His name is Clint Barton.” She stops and her eyes cross a bit as she listens. “Okay, sir.” More listening. “Yes, sir. Goodbye.”

Brenda smiles at him. “He’s in room 317.”

“Thank you.” Clint forces himself to walk slowly to the elevator when all he wants to do is run. He presses the button and when it doesn’t open right away he searches for the stairs. He springs up the flights until he hits the right floor and then follows the arrows.

Room 317.

Clint freezes in front of the door. After the weeks of living on his own and the frantic last few days of trying to get here, he’s finally standing outside of Coulson’s room. He feels oddly calm, though there’s still a niggling in the back of his mind that things might not be the same as they were the last time he saw Coulson.

Clint knocks.

The door opens. Coulson’s hair looks damp, like he just got out of the shower, and he’s wearing his usual suit sans the jacket. He smiles tentatively and moves out of the way so Clint can come inside.

“I’m sorry,” they say at the same time as soon as the door is closed.

Coulson holds up his hand. “I’m sorry that I didn’t explain what I was going to do before I did it. It was the only way that I could protect all of you.”

“I know.” Clint starts to sit down on the edge of the bed and then changes his mind, pacing instead. He’s powerfully aware of how filthy his clothes are, the layer of dust and dirt that feels like it’s caked onto his very skin. “I’m sorry that I didn’t stick around long enough to get an explanation. Miren told me what you did for her. For all of them. Thank you.”

“It was the least I could do.” Coulson’s still standing, leaning against the wall. He looks more tense than Clint has ever seen him. “I tried to come back to the circus to see you but it wasn’t really…allowed.”

Coulson’s fists clench by his sides and he stares at the floor like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Clint can’t take it anymore. He crosses the room in three strides. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, leaning up into a kiss.

It’s gentle and sweet, full of forgiveness and making up for lost time. Clint pulls away when Coulson’s hand wraps around the back of his neck and plays with his hair. It’s shaggy and long, grown out in the past few weeks.

“Do you mind if I…take a shower?”

Coulson chuckles, leaning his forehead against Clint’s shoulder. “Yeah, go ahead.” He kisses him again, quick and chaste. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Despite his promise, Clint can’t shake the fear that when he steps out of the shower, Coulson will be gone again. It doesn’t stop him from taking his time, washing his hair and every inch of his body. It’s been far too long since he’s had a proper shower and he hates that Coulson has to see him like this.

When Clint steps out of the bathroom and sees Coulson stretched across the bed flipping through TV channels, he forgets that they still have a lot to talk about. All that matters is that Clint is in a hotel room and he’s escaped the circus forever and Coulson is here, looking at him like the whole of the world is stretching out in front of them. Though, in a way, he supposes it is.

In all of that, the only thing Clint can think about is the fact that there is a bed, a real _bed,_ sitting right in front of them.

Coulson rolls over and watches him with a grin. Clint climbs onto the bed and straddles him, letting the towel wrapped around his waist slip away. The outside world, everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, fades away. Clint leans down to nip at Coulson’s neck until the other man twines his fingers through Clint’s hair and pulls his head up into a kiss.

The towel falls to the floor unnoticed as Coulson’s hands run from his shoulders to wrap around Clint’s hips.

“I think you’re overdressed,” Clint whispers into Coulson’s ear, glancing down at the white button-up and dark gray slacks. “I believe you have a promise to keep.”

Coulson grins and nudges Clint out of his lap so that he can stand up. Clint’s never seen anyone undress so fast. It seems like only the blink of an eye before Coulson is pushing him back on the bed and reaching for the dresser next to it.

“You came prepared,” Clint says, eyeing the box of condoms and bottle of lube from his birthday.

“I hoped,” Coulson replies, looking hesitant for the first time. Clint wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down into a kiss. It’s tender and slow, full of everything that he doesn’t yet have the words to say.

Clint lets his hands run down Coulson’s chest, fingertips tracing the edges of scars that he doesn’t have to look at to find. They’re thick and rough in comparison with the rest of his skin and there are far too many of them. Clint wants to run his lips down each and every one but there’ll be time for that later.

_Time later._ Just the very idea sends a thrill racing through his veins.

Coulson nudges Clint’s thighs apart with his knees and settles between them. Clint pulls out of the kiss with a moan at the sound of the cap of the lube bottle coming off.

Coulson squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers and then leans over to bite his way down Clint’s throat. The nips are soft, not hard enough to leave a bruise but enough to sting.

Clint bucks his hips up as he feels Coulson teasing him with a fingertip. “Just do it,” Clint grits out and Coulson pushes the first finger into him.

Clint concentrates on relaxing at the intrusion but he can’t stop himself from bucking up as Coulson twists his finger and pushes at that spot inside of him. “Right there,” Clint breathes, letting out a squeak that he’d never admit to when Coulson does it again.

Coulson adds a second finger, setting a slow pace. Every few thrusts he spreads his fingers, working Clint open. The last two weeks all somehow seem worth it spread out on the bed beneath Coulson. Or perhaps they’re not, if Clint thinks about how they could have been doing this all that time instead.

“Another,” Clint says. Coulson hesitates but slides in a third finger. Clint squirms, trying to find friction but not wanting to come too soon. Pleasure, white hot and desperate, races up and down his spine. He feels full to bursting but all he wants is more.

“Are you ready?” Coulson asks, catching Clint’s eyes.

Clint nods, glancing down to where Coulson’s cock is leaking precome onto the sheets. Then Coulson is sitting back and rolling a condom over himself and Clint’s watching, hands resting on Coulson’s hips.

Clint’s breath catches in his throat and he hopes desperately that this won’t be the last time he ever gets to see Coulson like this. Hair sticking up every which way. Pupils blown. Flushed with lust.

“Are you okay?” Coulson asks, nuzzling at Clint’s neck, hands soft and gentle at his hips. For a moment time seems to stand still and all Clint can hear is the soft rush of their breathing.

“More than okay,” Clint whispers back as he wraps his legs around Coulson’s hips and gives him a nudge. Coulson reaches between them and lines himself up, pushing in.

Clint focuses on relaxing as Coulson moves in inch by glorious inch until he stills, letting Clint get used to the feeling. It’s burning and a little uncomfortable but he’s also never felt anything so right. While he waits, Coulson wraps his hand around Clint’s cock and strokes it back to hard.

Clint opens his eyes and nods for Coulson to move. He does, going so slow that it’s almost torture, until Clint claws at his back and begs for him to move faster. Coulson leans down for a kiss mid-thrust. It’s sloppy and distracted but Clint doesn’t care because Coulson’s inside of him and he’s been dreaming about this moment for weeks.

The apartment. The kitchen. It all seems within reach.

Clint arches up as Coulson hits that spot inside of him and breaks the kiss to catch his breath. He looks up and wants to imprint the image of Coulson is his mind forever.

His lips are a little swollen and he’s flushed with want. Beads of sweat brim across his forehead. It makes Clint feel like he’s taken the normally-put-together man and cracked him apart.

Coulson reaches between them and starts to stroke Clint in time with his thrusts. There isn’t any more thinking to be done after that. It only takes a few strokes and a twist of Coulson’s thumb and Clint is coming so hard the room dissolves into a burst of white.

Coulson thrusts one more time and then stills, biting into Clint’s shoulder to smother the moans. That one is probably going to bruise.

Clint whines as Coulson pulls out of him and slides off the bed to throw away the condom. It isn’t long before Coulson is back with a towel to clean them both up. Clint closes his eyes until the other man stretches out beside him again. Clint feels warm and boneless, safer than he’s felt since his shared room with Barney when he was young.

“We should…we should probably talk…” Clint mumbles as he snuggles up to Coulson’s chest. He can’t seem to convince his eyes to open again. Coulson’s fingers carding through his hair aren’t helping.

“Shh.” Coulson reaches over to rest his other hand against Clint’s bare chest. “I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.”

Clint nods but he’s asleep before he can say anything else.

The smell of food and the clatter of dishes wakes him up again some hours later. The other side of the bed is empty and cold. Clint opens his eyes to see Coulson hunched over a room service cart laden with food.

Clint stretches without making a sound, absorbing the sight of Coulson standing there in a white robe. “I thought you might be hungry,” Coulson says, turning around with a grin that says he knew that Clint had been awake the whole time.

Clint rolls off the bed and takes in the dishes of meatloaf and mashed potatoes and green beans. Coulson’s already filling his own plate so Clint grabs one too. There isn’t anywhere great to sit, so the two of them climb back onto the bed and balance the plates on their laps.

Everything is delicious, though after dumpster food for the past couple weeks Clint is pretty sure _anything_ would taste like heaven. His mouth is stuffed full when Coulson clears his throat and catches Clint’s eyes.

“I got a job offer,” Coulson says hesitantly. “Not freelance security this time, either.”

Clint swallows hard and forces himself to keep eye contact. His heart pounds in his ears. “Where would you be going?”

“There’s…a lot of travel involved.” Coulson grins at that, dragging his fork through his pile of mashed potatoes. “I would be living on the road all the time.”

“Oh.” The meatloaf turns to cardboard in Clint’s mouth.

“I can’t really talk about it too much because it’s hush-hush government business.” Coulson wrinkles his nose and his smile seems more apologetic than reassuring.

“If you can’t do this anymore, just tell me.” Clint sets his plate down in his lap, stomach rolling.

“No!” Coulson moves closer on the bed, enough to rest his hand against Clint’s knee. “I want you to come with me. You’re going to be my first new recruit.”

“I don’t work for people I don’t know.” Clint eyes him, remembering when Boss and the others had taken him in and how well that whole thing had worked out. He wasn’t really in the mood to give it another shot.

“They’re called SHIELD. Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. I worked with them before, briefly, while I was in the Army. They could use someone with your skills.”

Clint pokes his meatloaf apart while he thinks it over. He’s never heard of SHIELD but he trusts Coulson like he’s never trusted anyone before. “Why would they want me?”

“Because I won’t go without you.” Coulson’s smile turns oddly grim. “And because you’re the best shot I’ve ever seen.”

“What would I have to do?” Clint almost can’t believe he’s actually considering this but the idea of watching Coulson walk away from him again is like a shard of glass in his heart.

“Whatever you want. SHIELD is a huge organization, Clint.”

“Okay. I’ll…I’ll give it a shot.” Clint grins back at him and Coulson answers by leaning across both their laps for a kiss. Their plates are pushed to the wayside, forgotten. Clint feels like his heart is soaring as he yanks at the ties of Coulson’s robe, thinking of all the moments like this to come and wondering if maybe in the midst of all that _travel_ they might have time for a little apartment with an overlooking view of the world.


End file.
